a man on crutches with nasty teeth all beat up and dirty underneath the train overpass. he looked like he needed a cigarette all grizzled and totally psychotic. cigarettes have a way of making the psychotic seem sane for at least awhile. so i stopped and offered him one. and our fingers touched when i held the lighter up to him. he ripped off the filter, a feeble attempt to make a mini-morphine puff. but his fingers, though, so smooth underneath ragged, dirty fingernails. he cracked a crooked smile and it stretched a mile wide.