A dolls house, a ship wrecked foster parent The alcoholic phantom who generously hands down the fever to the next generation. A fever that encompasses the basement dungeon, the same that held disastrous darkness, the same one that harbored the ghost that ate at the table which the family was meant to gather for their quality togetherness time. The same dull image which walked to school, held a job for years and caught the fever at the age of eighteen. The same one who spoke of greatness, of turning the wheels of industry but in the end just sat there wondering where it had all gone. Living on memories and seeking refuge by proclaiming the injustices of the corporations and curs of age at sixty ending with a sigh of depression as the ceiling fell on the couch crushing a long since decomposed remnant of a once self proclaimed great. But who worries about he dead? Who bothers to wonder if they are doing OK in their new after life?