I once heard him share a vision for his future: a little house and a little wife. He had the face of a waif and the pen of a swordsman. Any story with his byline cut to the heart behind the matter. In those golden days, he was legion—reporter, musician, filmmaker, partier—weaving the very fabric of the city. Decades passed. Tribes of friends moved on with their lives. Growing old alone, just this side of homeless, he could no longer be certain he was real.

freeway closure 
time stands still 
for the jumper 

Bio: Cynthia Anderson