I found out you died tonight. I can't get the vivid image of you walking by my house out of my head. You, in your mis-matched outfits of Hawaiin shirts, weird hats, and pants that only you could pull off. You were an artist, Three Fifteen. Exuberant, amazingly different and unusual. Kind of peculiar. Your truck with the colored wires glued on the hood, Your liscence plate that said, "I really, really, really, really, really, really like sex." I only wish I had known you better. You were a part of Cabbagetown, the neighborhood of dogs, lesbians, single mom's, musicians, and artists. The underground world of Atlanta. The old mill town Where kids run wild, shoeless and shirtless yellin' southern twang five year old boy's curse through the streets and holler at the girl's passing by Police cars stroll by and Psycho runs the streets wild, no leash. You didn't want to waste away, and I hear you were already starting to look emaciated. I wouldn't know. The last time I saw you was Thanksgiving. You brought the green bean casserole. I sat next to you. The dogs were there as always. But I was in a hurry. A friend came to get me. That was my last time with you. I feel cheated that I didn't know you better. Welcome to C-town. Driving through the tunnel, once covered by murals painted by the neighborhood, now hidden by grafitti. "To the dogs of Cabbagetown, who wait for us to come home," used to be painted there. The Little's grocery. The best bacon, egg, and chesse sandwich around, delivered by a guy on foot, old school style. The houses, tall and narrow, close together, all different colors. Many peeople have lived their whole lives here, they know they will never leave. A town which was once full of homicides and drug busts. It has calmed down now. I still don't run at night. Even during the day I take my dogs, Biscuit and Belle. So many dogs. The dogs come to the parties, they roam streets, chase cats, bark to each other ALL night long. They were at your birthday party Three, only you weren't there. You were in the hospital. You had an accident that morning, on top of your already existent cancer. Life's a Bitch. Who woulda thought it'd be a car accident that would take your everlasting spirit. My mom told me it was better this way. I didn't understand. I wish I had known you better. I will always remember seeing you when I was on my front porch, a crossword in one hand and coffee in the other. "Hi Three" "Hey, How's it goin?" Your strangely unique voice, the funny walk you had. A little too fast, or was it a little too slow? Your endless collection of paint cans, signs, slabs of wood, and poster boards. Basically, just junk. You were the house next to mine, separated by "the lot." You had a vegetable garden, and a cat that looked like mine. You were Cabbagetown, and it will never be the same. You had a sign on your front porch that read, "YOU ARE HERE" My mom said she took it to your birthday party, the one where you weren't there. But you will always be here Three. We saved you a permanent parking space, planted a dogwood tree in "the lot" for you. We want you to remember, although we can't see you, Cabbagetown knows "YOU ARE HERE"