The man who did everything right: married well, raised a son, was artistic, involved in the community, had an interesting job, seemed kind, minded his own business.
The man who did everything right died in the home he had built up for decades. Died falling down a flight of steps and broke his neck and was gone.
The man born with a silver spoon and a damaged psyche, who wastreled and wallowed. The man who hurt his children, insulted his neighbors, fought with family, cheated on his wife, shirked all responsibilities and gifts.
The man who did everything wrong, lived free and clear and worked hard as a janitor, and had a young girlfriend, a house by the sea, money in the bank, people that came to his rescue when his mind went and his health failed.
He died in a morphine haze, in a comfortable room, in an expensive care center, in the town he had lived in for his entire life during a lull in a pandemic.
