I turned and looked over my shoulder. My soul was sitting in the gutter, bathed like a hoped for baby in the bitter rain of a gloomy Baltimore night. As I watched, the erosive element of the rain undermined the dirt it was sitting on, and the soul started its long journey into the sewers. I shook the last cigarette out of my pack and lit it. I crumpled the empty pack in my hands and threw it at my soul. It fell well short, but landed in the gutter runoff anyway. I watched it float towards the sewer grating, a precourser to the soul that would follow. Like the bitter arguements that followed a tightwads wedding, I pondered yelling at myself. I debated going back to pick up my life. As smoke curled out of my nostrels and surronded my face like the frame a Picasso, I decided to let it go. What’s past is past, I figured, and I’m sure there is a woman out there who will take me on a ride second only to the Falcon at Cony Island. I turned my back on the gutter and walked towards my office. Behind me, my soul hung up briefly on the edge of the grate, and then fell through. I shrugged. Another new day was dawning, and I intended to greet it with entheusiasm.
Okay, dave, you’re weird. Oh, I guess you know that… 
www.cco.caltech.edu/~totem/v101/raymond.html