The sun goes down with me standing at the window, the room is drowned in darkness. The mess on my floor, my unmade bed, the basket of clean laundry which will take days to be put away. All of these things vanish as the light of day fades. On the desk, a pile of photographs climbs over itself. I want this to disappear most of all. I want the darkness to steal it away and never bring it back. I should've done away with these long ago, dropped them in a dumpster or burned them in a cold alley, or simply given them away. Maybe I would have done if I were able, if I didn't need them so much.

I finish tying my tie as I peer out the window and light another cigarette. I'm smoking too much, of course, the ashtray on the sill next to me overflows with proof. My lighter reflects the gleam from the street lamp into my eye and I hold it heavily in my hand. This was a gift from those times, I remember as I run my thumb over the words engraved on its face. This lighter and the marks on my arm are my souvenirs. And the pile of memory in the darkness behind me. I tighten the knot around my throat to hide the lump there. A trail of blue smoke dances around my head before scurrying to the ceiling. It's in my lungs, and out, a cloud all around me. Am I still talking about smoke?

A young woman crosses the parking lot below my window toward a beaten down army-grey Dodge Rabbit. She is dressed head to toe in black: baggy pants, a tattered sweater, combat boots and a coat several sizes too big, a backpack covered in patches slung over one shoulder insists on sliding down her arm as she fumbles with her keys. Dark circles of make-up are painted around her big eyes and her dyed black hair has been sprayed and teased out so that she looks every bit like a Robert Smith doll. I see her from time to time, always from a distance. There is something unnamably familiar about her, and if I thought hard enough about it I could even say what it is, but I have too many hard thoughts as it is.

The Robert Smith doll at last tugs open the door, hurls her bag into the passenger seat and climbs behind the wheel. After only a few haggard moments at war with the ignition, the Rabbit rumbles and she guides it in swift, jerking movements out of the parking lot. With fluidic, breakneck speed into the street, she is gone. I scratch my head and run a hand through my hair, a little less of it than there used to be. A waft of smoke stabs me in the eye, which waters painfully as I rub it too hard with my thumb. Everything today seems a little harder than it needs to be.

A sigh erupts from deep within me as I turn back into the darkness of my room. I cross to the desk with measured steps, careful not to tread on the clutter in my blindness, but of course I wince when my knee collides with a crack against the chair. Without a word, I curse loudly, one hand gripping the chair, the other reaching out for the lamp. With a flick of the switch, so they say, an ocean of frozen faces stare up at me from the desktop. A hundred faces and a thousand memories. I fall into the chair, ash my cigarette into a glass of water and stare back at them.

I am haunted by ghosts.

Good people and good times, mistakes and hard feelings poured from an old shoebox. There are names here we don't even dare speak anymore, the memory somehow still too fresh. Most of them I haven't seen in years. Some I will never see again. There is so much I remember from those days. So much I wish I'd said before it was too late. Maybe that's why thinking back on them still hurts so much. It was the decline of our civilization the last time I saw these faces. I was in a bad place then, as were we all. It was a time when all of our bad ideas were in full bloom., and seeing the shadows of those times brings it all back to me. There's so much I remember about those days, so much I can't forget. Try as I might to put the memories behind me, they always come flooding back like this, like the pain returns when the drugs wear off.

I move a few of them aside and take one between my fingers. This is the money shot, all of us together on that beautiful summer afternoon. We are all smiles here, we were so happy that day. And why not? These were the best times of my life, the best friends I've ever known, the mountain of regret I can't seem to abandon. What happened to us? Where did it go wrong? Why am I left years later with a head full of cliches? I suppose it was inevitable that something so sweet would become so sour, but I can't help wonder why no one else seems to be lost in memory like this. Maybe they're just better at hiding it.

Today of all days I have to be haunted by ghosts. Tonight of all nights I have to walk among them again.

"Peter!" Andy calls from the other room. "Cab's here!"

I stare a hole through those smiling faces, those bright eyes, that brutal optimism. We don't smile like that anymore.

"Be right there."

Andy stands at the mirror next to the front door, checking his pompadour. I gaze down at my suit, dull black and white in contrast to his, black as absolute zero marked with a screaming crimson shirt. Next to him I feel pedestrian. Andy…Smiling Andy Walenski. He looks the same now as he does in the photos, the years have been kinder to him than to me. The lines on my face are already pronouncing themselves at the tender age of 30. Andy is still the bright-eyed ladies' man of his youth, even with the two years he has on me. This comes as no surprise, but it still drives another tiny dagger into me. Look at us now, he off to a dinner party and me off to a funeral.

"Ready to fly?" he turns to me with that big, infamous smile.

I don't make eye contact, I glance around the living room and try to think of an excuse to stay home. I nod slowly. "Yeh, let's go."

In a blur, we are standing in front of Sam and Lauren's apartment building, a bottle of red wine in my hand, decent but not great. I take a cigarette out of my jacket, and as I light I must concentrate to remember how we got here. The taxicab driver with the thick Newfoundland accent and the insane red hair, the argument with Andy at the liquor store over whether to get red wine or Chivas Regal, those few eventful moments when Andy stopped to charm the prostitutes. Through all of that, I was lost in fog. I stare now at the old brick building where Sam and Lauren have lived together for just over a year. It reminds me of somewhere I used to live, so long ago.

"You're smoking too much." Andy says, watching three scarcely dressed women walk past us on the sidewalk. For a moment, I think he is about to go after them.

"I know." This is an answer to a question Andy has forgotten he asked.

"Did I tell you about the gig at Lee's next week?"

"Stuey told me."

"What did he say?"

"Said we have a gig on Friday."

Andy nods. "You want to smoke a joint before we get there?"

I don't, really, but I say yes anyway. We duck between two brownstones, just far enough in that we're out of eyeshot of the street. Andy pulls a tiny joint from his inside pocket. Small, which is good. The stuff Val has been holding lately is pretty potent, reminds me of the good stuff we used to get from Mulligan. The first bag of this new stuff Andy and I picked up, we did three big pipe-hits each and spent the night as furniture. We're more careful with it now. We probably shouldn't even be smoking now, but we both know we won't be able to cope with tonight's crowd if we arrive sober.

Andy lights the joint with his own gunmetal lighter and takes three quick drags. It helps to see that he too has held onto this memory. I wonder if the others have kept theirs. All but Michelle, who I watched throw hers into the river. For an instant I think to share this thought with Andy, but for some reason I abandon the thought when he passes the joint to me.

"So what bug is up your ass tonight?" Andy asks in a plume of smoke. It sounds rhetorical.

I shake my head. "Just distracted."

"Distracted." He says, pausing to study my face until I hand the joint back to him. He is trying to catch my eye, but I'm not offering it. "Distracted by what?"

I shake my head again, a little less convincing this time. "It doesn't matter."

"You think too much, Peter." Andy smiles at me, I'm not sure why. "You think everything to death. You always have."

"I know."

"Whatever is running through your head, at least pretend you're having fun tonight."

I smoke my cigarette, turning down the joint when he offers it again. You think you know what's bothering me, Andy, but that's not it. Not entirely.

Andy rings the buzzer outside Sam and Lauren's building, then steps back one step and winks at me over his shoulder. An instant later the intercom springs to life. It's Lauren through the crackle and hum. It's always Lauren through the crackle and hum.

"Hello!"

Andy throws his arms wide, as though the intercom is watching. "The party is here!"

The intercom perks up. "Hey! Come on up!"

There is the horrible buzz as the door unlocks, Andy pulls it open. The buzz is still ringing in my ears as we are inside, halfway up the old staircase. My hand slides absently along the wooden banister. It's gorgeous work, this old building, not like our own. No, this one reminds me of better times. Better and worse. Why does everything today have to be so hard?

"Did we have to bring wine?" I ask as Andy raps his knuckles musically against Sam and Lauren's door, Apt. 4. I hold the bottle up plaintively in front of my face. I know Andy's eyes are rolling in his head without having to look.

"Good lord, Peter." It's not often he uses this tone of voice, but I recognize it. "We went through this at the store. No one brings whiskey to a dinner party."

The door opens and, again, it's Lauren. Lauren, the host, the eternal greeter, even when the party is not hers. Holds the door open with one hand, the other stretched out toward us in welcome. She's lost weight over the years, and somehow she stands taller now than when we met so long ago. She's earned it, to be sure, she has earned every last bit of wonder about her. I stare to long at her now, a vision of the universe in her black spaghetti-strap dress, her hair cut neatly just below her ears with a curl at the end, the perfect Jackie Kennedy. But it's the eyes, the smile that make her shine. Those huge green eyes that bring you in and make you safe, that smile like a Bob Marley tune that lets you know everything's going to be alright.

"Andy!" she sings, "Peter! So glad you could make it!"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Lauren." Andy or myself, one of us says this. Maybe both. Who can tell right now? One of us hands the wine to her without ceremony. This, I suppose, is me.

"Come in! Come in!" she stands back, motioning us in with the under-swing of one hand.

All three of us are now cramped in the tiny hallway at the front of the apartment. On one wall is a painting of a stick figure in a starburst of colours, on the other is a row of coathooks covered in jackets. Lauren, now holding the wine bottle, embraces me warmly and this feels like home. Andy stands to one side, studying the painting. It's new, after all.

"Dinner should be ready soon," Lauren smiles at me, pulling away from the embrace. "Sam's in the kitchen getting everything ready. Grab a drink, make yourselves comfortable."

Further into the apartment, Andy and I stop in the doorway to the already crowded living room. There is a sofa here, a couple of chairs, a coffee table covered in magazines and art books, lamps on end-tables instead of an overhead light, a large bookshelf on which sits the stereo, but there is no television. The walls are adorned with paintings similar to that in the front hallway, as well as several framed photographs. Oh yes, and the people, each cradling a glass of wine in their hands, more like an accessory than a drink.

These are Sam and Lauren's New Friends as Andy and I call them when they aren't around. People from the magazine and the art college. We've met a few of them, though only in passing, and standing here in our drinking suits it isn't hard to see why. Artists, poets, elite unto themselves, masters of patronization. These people are worshippers of irony where Andy and I are irony's drinking buddies. Sam and Lauren have fit so well into this world, though I never would've predicted it. The urge rises in me to storm across the room, crank the volume on the stereo just loud enough to make the neighbours complain, crack a beer and light a joint and accidentally break a lamp while playing air guitar. On another day, who knows, I might do it, but here and now with the wine and low music, the subtle talk and the casual apathy only illustrate more how far we've strayed.

I don't know these people.

"Does it matter?" Andy says, and I realize my thoughts are now out loud. Andy walks away with a wink. "Make small talk, Slugger. It's a party. Mingle."

In seconds, Andy is on the other side of the room talking to two attractive young women. They laugh as he speaks and my face falls again. I wish I had Andy's gift. He could make friends in a closet.

I catch sight of Lauren, standing next to the kitchen doorway, laughing with the thinnest bald man alive. How he can see the inch of black-rimmed spectacles, I could not even guess. Sam pops his head out of the kitchen, muttering something to Lauren. Strain to hear, but can't, only their voices. They laugh, as does the world's thinnest bald man. Before he withdraws back into the kitchen, I catch Sam's eye by accident. We share an emotionless glance for a second too long for comfort. Sam looks very much like he did in younger years, his hair a little longer, shaggier, and he is sporting facial hair. He nods his head so slightly I could have imagined it, and he vanishes back to the pots and pans.

I never knew him to be much of a cook, you know. There have been more changes than I even realize, haven't there? I watch Sam and Lauren share a quick, loving kiss. There was a time, doesn't seem that long ago, I didn't think I would ever see Sam and Lauren together again. I didn't imagine any of us would be together again, actually, considering the dismal terms on which we all parted ways. There was also a time when I didn't mind so much. Part of me wishes I was still there.

I move to a table covered with wine bottles and a few scattered glasses that look like they had at one time been. I'm not sure if my frown is on the inside or out as I pour myself a glass of Merlot. There are seven different kinds of wine here and all I want is a shot of good, hard rot-gut whiskey.

No, not a shot. A pint.

A pint and a pitcher down at Donnelly's Pub on a Wednesday night, the place packed double-thick with everyone I know. The band is playing, I don't care which one. We spill beer on the table in a relaxed frenzy and we wipe it off with our hands onto the floor. We cheer to every friend as they arrive, we raise our glasses and cheer to the bands as they take the stage, again when they leave, we cheer to a fresh pitcher or to a good shot on the pool table…to everyone and everything, we cheer! A pint at Donnelly's. That's what I want.

Or the dregs of a bottle of tequila at our place on Bishop Street, hanging onto the tail end of a bender too many days long to count. Christo passes the bottle to me and I pass it to Andy, we stare out from under our tired stupor at the carnage we've created. But we were not alone in this havoc, no. There was an abundance of help, a myriad of stories and accidents and party tricks and failed challenges that brought us here. In the aftermath, we sit and plot the next battle in the war that is Bishop Street. The worm at the bottom, that's what I want.

Or a joint and a game of chess with us all crammed into the Supersphere, a pot of tea steeping in the kitchen. Pink Floyd slips out of the stereo, or G Love or Radiohead. Sam moves among us in his studio, working between our quiet chaos, the rest of us stationary except when we slide along to make room for newcomers. Here is where we gather to share and let slip away the day's news. It is our crowded round table, our sanctum and our forum for these grand intoxicated ideas, flanked on all sides my photography and works of art. It is a bright spot in the universe, this Supersphere, and we know without speaking it that we are a privileged illuminati to hold court here. One joint, and another and another until we lose count, a pot of Darjeeling tea steeped to nirvana and an never-ending game of chess. That's what I want.

Or a cup of hot black coffee at Café Max to drown our hangovers after a good night, gathered in misery to bask in company. Or a One-Inch Punch practice at the jam space. The confusion of our mixed personalities, coming together to make our beautiful noise. Or at Intermission Video, on Tuesdays when the new shipment would arrive, when everything was good, before everything was complicated. Or a lazy summer afternoon with Patrick, getting high on the roof. Or at one of Sam's openings. Or down at the Sawyer Arms between classes. Or visiting Andy at the tattoo parlour.

These things are what I want.

Why doesn't it matter, Andy? Why doesn't it matter that all of these people are strangers to us? After all the history we share, after all we've been through, all the times we've leaned on each other, shouldn't there be more familiar faces than this? Why doesn't it matter that we are the outsiders here? On a night like this, why is it that all I can think of is who isn't here?

Where's Christo? Where's Patrick? Where's Wiley?

Over my shoulder is a window leading onto the fire escape. People stand on either side of it in conversation. I am at the window now. With effort I urge it open, lift one leg over the window to climb through. Sam and Lauren's New Friends who flank the window turn to look figuratively down their noses at me, but I am beyond caring. They mock what they do not understand.

I stand in darkness on the fire escape and light a cigarette, the orange flame dances and casts a shadows over my face. Slowly, I close the lid and the flame is gone, leaving only the memory of its light on my eyes against the darkness. I am blind now, strangely calming. After a moment, my vision returns to me and I stare into the black sky. There are no stars, but light from the streets give the buildings around me a soft nimbus, the towers of the skyline are lit quietly, though there is still the undeniable sound of street traffic, subtle yet ever-present. The cigarette hangs from my mouth, smoke trails into the distance. There is a certain manic peace here as the malaise settles.

"Peter?" I turn with a start to find Lauren halfway through the window. She looks worried. "I thought I saw you sneak out here."

"Just getting some fresh air." I say, holding up my cigarette pathetically.

She climbs out onto the fire escape with me, gazing out across the skyline of the city. She wraps her arms around herself, shivering. I slide out of my jacket and drape it over her shoulders with care.

"Thank you." She smiles at me, then peers a little closer to me, getting too good a look at my face for me to hide my thoughts from her. "You okay? You seem a little down tonight."

"Yeh, it's nothing."

Lauren steps closer, watches me intently, though I avoid eye contact. I slide my hands into my pockets, I try to make myself go away, but it isn't working.

"You sure?"

"Just been thinking, you know…about the old days."

"Mmm," she smiles wide now. "The old days. Those were some good times, weren't they?"

"Not all of them." I say it before I can stop myself, and once it is out, it hangs in the air. It hangs and it is black and sweaty and cold. Lauren watches me, stunned, though my eyes don't move. She knows everything I mean in those four small words. Suddenly, she is with me, trapped in a box of old photographs.

Lauren looks away again, out over the rooftops and the alleyways, the soft light and the noise of the world. She moves next to me, rests her head on my shoulder, both comforting me and looking for comfort herself. The smoke from my cigarette lifts into the night sky.