Never walk alone on the sidewalks of Fr. Masterson drive.

Never walk alone on the sidewalks of Fr. Masterson drive, when the chilly December zephyr is blowing against your flushed cheeks and the remaining leaves of the fire trees, now dormant and waiting for the next radiant summer morning before they burn again, are being buffeted to and fro by the biting wind.

Never walk alone on the sidewalks of Fr. Masterson drive, when the dying rays of this too-long day are filtering through the spidery branches of the somber, secretive trees, and the promise of a new dawn is withheld by the cruel hand of a moonless night.

Never walk alone on the sidewalks of Fr. Masterson drive, when the only thing that illuminates your darkest night is the resplendent fluoresence of a thousand artifical lights, casting shadows on people walking hand in hand, whose every happy squeak and twitter is a vulgar travesty that mocks your own silent little world.

Never walk alone on the sidewalks of Fr. Masterson drive, period. It's emotional suicide.

Trust me. I died a little today.