He was as real as real gets. The pain in his voice, in his eyes. The kind of man you want to comfort, but you know is too proud to cry. The kind of man who bleeds from the heart but will not speak. The kind of man who will give you every thing he owns, except his heart;no one can ever know-how easily it gets hurts. You drank to kill the pain, but it took you. You will never hurt again. And when I dream that I taste fine bourbon and see the burning end of a cigarette, be there?