It's perfect like an apple-yellow spotted Appaloosa at the trot, it's like happiness in dreams, alms for the poor and oft abused and aching hearts of the nocturnal and alien felines of the arch-way, alley-ways and astral-like avenues of an unhappy city asleep. Carried off by nightjars, a lacerating melancholy and the blest beauty of lily-white orchids on black water. You love classic cinema, aged Havana cigar boxes and the acidic rust of abandoned and lonely Appalachia. Architecture, and how you adore antique staircases and ghost-addled cellars, old canary colored doors and alluring sawdust, pristine cedar and a vast veranda of Goya paintings; boxing like Arturo Gatti, blood and guts warrior, alpine violets that are always swaying perfectly with the brisk arctic breeze of cold mountain air.