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VII A new suit of clothes wouldn't help me out much and even a set of wings would still leave me looking like John Farmers gargoyle scare crow in his Sunday best. Most of those who die are in a pretty dilapitated condition, racked by illness or the parasites system (which is all the same) and the angelic expression is far removed. Possibly, however, when they get over these they start growing there they start growing young and wind-up with a pair of wings and a pair of diapers. How's that for fantasy? But we are living in realites and the unemployed army of 10 million plus is growing - and the gallon and half of stew the Pearl Street restaurant dumpped in the swill-barrel didn't last five minutes... No wonder the pigs are plowed-under and the dogs have a far-away look in their eyes - even the police-dogs neglect to grab us by the shanks - wont even get up to sniff our pants to verify the high eimprise of our social standing. They don't seem to give a damn who we are - or possibly they have last confidence in us and fear they will wind-up in a stew-pot. Stranger things have happened. You wouldn't call that fantasy or imaginings of a cracked writer! Two meals a day seems to be the rule (breakfast is composed of several grownings in bed) and, if I do say so myself, the bed and the meals doesn't look any better than the man himself.