Many days had been and gone since Tom had entered the world. Sun and raindrops falling into the earth or running collectively, an army on a march. An army of rain-drops that splashed through the gutters and over hard places until they reached metal grills. Into the sewers to join the rats and the sanitary towels, fats and condoms swimming in sperm. All those people with the dead prospect of light and light; there in that condom bag. No dreams for them. No plans for them or, of course, life and death for them. Just a journey together in everlasting darkness as life and living, or not, went on overhead. No need for a doctor to put you on the Liverpool pathway. To be tuck you discreetly away in a care home once you got to the stage where you forgot your name. You would wander the rat run of corridors. Pass bedroom doors left ajar. There would be real people with dreams and plans now spent. No need for the glasses on the drawers, you can't reach or for the zimmer frame that whispers your name whilst all you can do is wait.