Meaning will not be found at 3am cruising the empty streets of a dead mill town. Not down vacant, alley cat passages that cut along the granite chunk river. Not behind the flake paint walls of lean-to tenement buildings. Not left nor right down dead-end-life-threatening-blvds. Scary is the insomniac gambling on the turn of the wheel..fingers crossed, door ajar...waiting to make that leap into the fresh. Risking all for that chance to sleep anew. Its 3am