On the banks of the river a cool breeze blows in the general direction of the bright city lights. Upon the eve of a new year I see the crumbling silhouette of a drunken misecreant stumbling past the Pyramid. He weaves slowly westward toward the cobblestone street to find a warm bed and a dry place to doze. The storm on the horizon leads to the assumption that the never-ending fiesta soon will move indoors. I reflect upon my fortune in this time of renewal and move slowly downward to the cold city streets. The white blanket of hope that caresses the neon lights seems to call only to me and two young lovers embracing. They stumble past the alleyways in a not so subtle attempt to make it back home before the sun shines again. But in the bowels of this city, beneath the jubilation, there lie many who feel no more than that which is forced. And high above this thoroughfare in an unilluminated pane, a woman stands weeping for the year that has passed her by. Quietly to avoid detection, I move into the shadows of the aged hotel and speak softly to the fowl. "Theres the spirit, on Beale, of an old Blues musician who never made a record, and never played a show." "That will not be me, duck." I will be the antithesis of the broken souls who wander these streets. And as the unblinking eyes of the gargantuan bridge stare unheeding into my psyche, I cannot help but smile. There are many fleeting moments in a life such as this but this is one that will stay etched forever in my mind.