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"He Talks to Angels" He smokes pot, leaning off the ledge of the balcony in the autumn breeze. Like the gargolyes of Notre Dame he watches over the city street. The afternoon sun illuminates the natural highlights of his hair as he takes another hit. The world moves in slow motion when you're not around. He exhales, the smoke framing his face. A gentle breeze whisks it away before I have time to capture the moment on film. He's full of sorrow. He's full of angst. We're living on the edge, like there is no tomorrow. We've tried to run from our sorrow, but that's only thrown petrol on the flame. No one knows where, what or how we go. I see corr