Standing on the edge of the roof of that old building, the man could feel that he was standing on the rubble of his lost youth, that every step taken on those dirty streets had left memories that now formed piles of rotting and wormy corpses over which carrion birds flew. The cold winter wind chilled him to the bone, his back began to constrict and his jaw to tremble, his teeth chattering. A blizzard shook the branches of the trees and their black windbreaks, while tears slid down his purple face and fell on his white hands. Guilt-filled thoughts came to mind—his mother’s smile as she made him coffee in the morning, his father telling him his story while…