Brown bottles have given birth to a second life. Long ago lost, the lands of my youth. Old men dream dreams. Though my ideal self, the days are more varied as the world we share. Delights and despondence share the same infinite space. Prince and pauper are but masks in the darkness. Sets are built and struck with frightening speed. My bed a castle or a crypt beyond my control. Two lives. Two games. Strategy and chance. In one I am losing; the other I’m lost.