It’s winter, a young boy stands looking out onto a wasteland of snow. A sparrow flits around his head. The boy shows no emotion. It’s as if he has morphed into stone. He was born in the era of Strawberry Fields. Factories and smokestacks smells of Europe ran through his hair. His parents are memory they do not exist. He has no photographs, no memorabilia placing them in time. They are memory. He knows hospital wards and sickness, people are dying from a disease of the heart. Everything has turned in on itself, not even the sparrow is real. He does not fear death, only the death of his soul. The dream is no longer a dream it has become a nightmare . He had forgotten what life looked like. The perfume that rises from a woman in passing. The smell of freshly baked bread. The light from outside his window. The gentleness of someone’s kind words. The night stars that are the map to eternity. Perhaps at nights end we become better angels not worse human beings as we pass into light..