As I walk down the alley, torn tights under my umbrella, I ponder how I look to passersby on the street. Split-second decisions are the best decisions. I suppose, even if only best in the moment. But each moment is all we have. The street juts out from the crumbling alley. Streetcars pass alongside me like ghost ships through heavy fog. The same fog fills my brain. I try to clear it, lay a hand on something concrete, something simple and true. Something logical. I need truth, one truth. But there are too many. Addiction. Those afflicted with what they once began and now regret. Billowy drug addicts. Philandering men and women out in the nightclubs, when it’s dark enough to hide themselves between streetlights. Those who are so burdened with a mind of strong idealism they can’t let go of what they hoped was real. Yes, I was addicted. A memory, unwanted. From the party. “Do you drink a lot?” I hesitate before I answer. “These days, yes.” “You shouldn’t drink. It’s not good …