I walked light-years to remember dreams.

I dreamt my disabled mother and I was on a crowded train to a shelter for the homeless.

She died in my arms.

I woke up to the sight of clothes, furniture and toys thrown out of windows. Newer tenants had to move out within a short time frame or The US Marshals would evict them by force. My mother whispered someone was banging on the door.  Near in the hard tone of an order, I was told to leave our belongings behind because we were to be given bunk beds. I saw a baby crib and a big bag of toys left behind in an apartment we were being harassed to move in to avoid being taken to court for eviction. I was told not to worry about the crib and other objects because it was going into the garbage.

Paradise Management on behalf of Corner View LLC wanted us to sign a new lease to an apartment that was slightly in better conditions than the one my mother and her husband moved into in the beginning of The Watergate Scandal. I took the lease to Housing Court where a gray haired female legal clerk compared it to the old one. Sweetheart, don’t let your mommy sign the new one. I want you to go to The Department Of Housing and tell them what is happening in your building, she said, genuinely concerned. I walked the highway for hours to prevent dreams from homelessness. I walked in a heat wave for hours to tell this story. What’s wrong, a cop asked me from his patrol car. Violently, I coughed up blood into an oxygen mask as sirens screamed to the hospital.

I died.

In a blink of an eye, I relived my life as the lights on the Lincoln Hospital ceiling became bright as the lights on a cell phone shown to me by a New York Post reporter who was investigating UFOs around my building in The South Bronx. I remembered a bright light in front of my bedroom window when I was a child gifted with a photographic memory

The UFOs made the cover of the newspaper founded by a Founding Father.

There are illegal aliens on Earth.

One alien is called Poverty

While thinking on what to write next, I heard a fluttering sound on my bedroom windowsill. It was a fierce looking jet-black crow. I have never seen a crow among pigeons in The Bronx, home of Edgar Allen Poe who wrote poetry about a raven.

I was a few inches away from obsidian eyes and watched it fly up only to fall back.

The bird disappeared when I returned with an old cellphone to take picture as proof.  I wondered the symbolism of a crow or a raven.  I’m living on borrowed time to write on an archaic Win 98 PC that freezes up and has gone Blue Screen several times

I transfer data into a flash drive that has been phased out for new ones incomparable with my PC operating system also phased out. I traveled the story to the public library of many stories of our lives.  I submit this journal to the future of history.

Our mailbox was savagely mutilated as if dozens of M-80 blew up. It happened two days after Paradise Management employees entered our apartment without permission and tried to get me to call off a city inspection. A city inspector was in the next room and heard everything. He warned them he would call police if they interfered with an investigation. They left in sullen silence. Two days later, I complained to the superintendent but he did nothing but smirk.  A friend gave me his cellphone to take pictures to show to The Longwood Police Stationhouse where I filed a report.

I wish the policewoman would had told me if here on it’s a Federal matter because of the loss of our mail. The superintendent came up to me with keys to another apartment’s mailbox. They offered $500 to get us to move. They were playing Three Card Monte with apartments that left me acting like a white mouse in a maze.