an old writer and his words

He stood alone, a stoic observerin the midst of the maelstrom,deaf to the cacophony,bathed in a golden silence.This was not a gin dream, hehad let go of alcohol and drugsfor they crowded his thoughts,forced them into places henever wanted to be, his dreamsonce his holy salvation and hea penitent to Saint Morpheus, whopromised him freedom,…