Down by the old cemetary where the presidents rot, down by the tombstones beyond the moaning gates where the old men wait, well-dressed and underground. Yes the black buzzards smile. Oh yes, the gates moan. Calling for me to rescue. They all weep into my bones. Summer dress. Handsome smile. Lovers lips. Ah her cure. The moans calling her to rescue. There she is, enter Simone. I swear we're all there. Right there, we moan, calling her to rescue. "We pray you never leave us, our singing somber mistress," they said.

Maybe it's not me going crazy. Maybe this place has gone crazy outside my skin. Although, if not for this place gone bad. Whose skin shall I stand in? Or whose skin is this? Is it mine or his? Is it these or those? Who knows?