Why not?

Okay, there was a party. A few thousand people in attendance. Much more than should be there for an ordinary party, before one has reached the ripe-ol-age of 70 years or so. I managed to stay around long after my welcome was severely worn. I pasted passionate kisses onto a sheet of 50lb. paper to make my way in the general direction of the protagonists involved – as they have aged at a rate quicker, not to mention being born earlier, than I have found myself.
Leaving there tonight I made it around a hook and a crook and an Atlanta police cruiser to the old sweet spot where I used to procure Staropramen, because I liked the name and the label. I would walk twice a day to acquire six nuggets of middle european delight. My neighbors loved me, and the walkers-by loved my inattention to my nicotine deficit.
Tonight I happened to be lonely upon departure from the lovely combined b-day party. Lakey had begun off to bed too early as a result of the too much booze. Wendi was awake and cognizant, and lovely, and all that. It was 3 AM and time to head back to the hood, as Sian informed me was the name of where I currently reside and pay rent. I cannot imagine a diffrerent way. So I scuuttlebutted away to points in Oakhurst, on the cusp of Kirkwood, past your dreams, or what any plan could make possible.
As a nicotine imperative seems to drive me to my grave, I made my way by the old corner shop, where I used to procure the aforementioned Staropramen, for a refill.
Remeber me when I lived in that place. Remember how I made mad faces to the moon on certain given nights. Remember that I was mad as a hatter, a matter, a smatter of kitchen utensils thrown randomly about the room.
Please accept my apologies for all that follows!
Tonight, I made my way to said corner shop and outside found the late-night attendant talking to a local, presumably cool-cat, homeless man. My arrival initiated the trip inside and the certain scan of the local costs and taxes.
Before I headed in, man outside of the store asked if I would take care of him upon departure. I said, ” I will see what I can do.”
Paragraphical errors mean so little to me these days. Just stay with me.
I went in, and cigarettes did procure. Dollars laid down I headed out the door and into the East Atlanta streets, a ten foot walk from my car, and on the way….
“Do you thing you can help me out?”
Maybe, I thought. But I am not sure.
“Can you help me out?”
Oh, sure, what do you have… can you sing?
“Of course I can!”
To my sorrow the first effort one was one of laying down poor versions of poor Eagles songs, that I presumed were for the benefit of my sorry-white-ass.
“Do you have anythng better?”, I asked after shoving over $2.
And out of his mouth came, as sweetly as a giant, these words…
“It was just my imagination,
running away with me,
it was just my imagination……….”
In a different part of the city it would have not meant anything more. In a different part of the city we would not have made harmony. Two dollars made all the difference for this unemployed compadre.
Tonight I sang a song from the depths. I sang a song with a heart that he chose. I made a mighty bow toward the sweet, and we danced a bit without dancing. We believed a little in each other, just for the asking. I waited two full minutes before encumbering myself in the car and off to home.
Or was it just my imagination… running away with mee. Possibly!