A stump of cherry wood oak stands out in the middle of a musty basement. Swirls of dust shine like scraps of California gold as rays of sun catch their reflection. Drapes of dusty reds and faded greens lie on worn out furniture from the roaring twenties. This place is a photograph. This place is fancy and it is evaporating. The hinges of a door can be heard as a man walks down eating two oranges. The acidic juice and smell of citrus bring new life to the attic. The man has a familiar face. A familiar face that has seen life and unfortunately has aged because of it. The man is Fancy and he is tired. He gingerly steps on the basement floor and looks around with wide eyes. He hears the sounds of trumpets and drums blaring, as though they are attempting to reach the ears of angels. He tastes the sweet bubbles of champagne pouring from bottles imported from lands he never heard of. He feels the sweat, the rustle, and the bustle of crowds jumping up and crouching down to the bands music. Life, it was electric and it was addictive. There was never enough life to go around, but that never stopped the man from trying to experience it all. It all changed of course. When a lady, dressed in an emerald green dress, crimson red hair, and blazing green eyes. Suddenly, life took shape of a person. A person that was unattainable and reckless, as life should be. The sound of her name was a beautiful melody to the man. The only thing more melodic was the sound of her saying his name. This only happened once, when she decided to walk up to him and ask who he was. She never called him by his real name, she only called him Fancy. Sprinting through the streets of Manhattan. Car horns piercing the air sounded like French horns to the man and woman. They were unstoppable together, but they were faced with an unmovable object, time. The man was aging, his confidence evaporating. Soon he became cold and bitter. The woman remained unharmed by the clock of life. Soon their sprints became jogs, his heart could not take it anymore. Their jogs became walks, his knees gave in. The woman never feeling the harnesses of time on her shoulders left. And so the walks became a chase, a chase the man had no chance in winning. Life is never attainable, it is only experienced. The sounds of trumpets fade. The sweet bubbles become bitter. The warmth of crowds become a cold breeze of isolation. The man is alone with only his memories to keep him company. A pair of feet come racing down the steps. A young colleague, no older than twenty one. He has sweat in his brows and rage in his eyes. The young man has lost everything to several less than fortunate investments. Investments that were advised by the old man in the basement. Filled with rage, the boy reaches into his emerald green jacket and pulls out a pistol with a crimson red handle. As the boy points the pistol at him, the old man saw time slow down. For a brief moment he felt as though he could reach out and grab life by the throat. He saw all the moments that slipped between the cracks of his fingers suddenly fall into the palm of his hand. Life was attainable. For only a brief second. The young boy saw life escape faster than the bullet firing out of his gun. Swirls of dust shine like scraps of California gold.