The thin Gold layer was washed off. Now everyone sees what is underneath. It started with the Black Tuesday when the stock market crashed. Predictable, but the stocks refuse to go back up again, like a building that cannot stop itself from cracking and breaking further. There was another economic depression, so you better hope you got some coins left; otherwise, pray you will still have a life or belly timber at the end of this depression. The depression just kept getting worse while President Hoover insists that it will get better soon. This “normal'' economic depression is a hundred times worse than the economic situations of the war-torn countries in Europe.

I went out to the market, through a street of the once vibrant commercial city with bustling activities - now haunted by echoes of fading souls screaming in silence veiled in ashes and dust of what was once hopes and dreams, and still everything was expensive, and the merchandise greeted only the wind passing by. Why? Because of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff. I turned to the next corner and witnessed Hoovervilles and people collapsing in the open with Hoover blankets in dilapidated streets, a betrayal to the tall and mighty buildings of New York. Their makeshift shelter was built with what remains of their possession and supplies that mankind once considered trash. Birds mock the humans that cut down their homes while rats patiently wait for their next meal in the dark. Ragamuffin lies with stolen innocence. Their gray eyes paint a picture of their lost dreams, reminding me of the gray eyes of the soldiers of the Great War. The false gold layer of laughter faded into monochrome and silent despair; what remained was the hollow footsteps of aimless wanderers, echoing with the occasional cries in the air until whoever cried ran out of breath. Abandoned shops plague the streets with boarded windows and broken glass. Occasionally, a corpse or two can be seen on the cold and rough concrete streets, reeking the smell of despair and poverty; their blood splatter from after they leaped off the skyscraper stretched across the street surface like the abstract art on the dirt of the Great War. It is as if the very fabric of society was torn apart from the inside out, leaving the little enclaves of humanity trying to fend for themselves in this concrete jungle created by “Captains of Industry” Robber Barons. Hoover assured us that with “hard work,” we can lift ourselves up. With all the stocks falling, Nick, who works on Wall Street, is now unemployed. I tried to go out and find jobs and failed. Nick suffered the same fate. How can we do hard work without work?

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I could see people’s eyes hollowed by hunger, their bodies becoming more skeletal by the day, and their dishabille becoming so tattered that made me wonder how they will survive the winter? Their faces, with lines and craters of starvation, stare back at you with the gaze that speaks a million envious words about how lucky you are to still have belly timber to retain that healthy face. If you follow the direction of where the flies are coming from or going, you would find corpses rotting from recent suicides; I could see Raphael’s face in them. Occasionally, there are a few lucky souls in their expensive suits and golden rings trot past the street with their indifference, contrasting against the screaming despair in the silence of the air.

I bet if I write something now, everyone will read it and acknowledge the facts I speak. That is if I still have the money to publish works. Recently, Dave’s letter (my former squad member who survived the War) managed to find its way to me. It is a desperate request for money and supplies. I know he cares about his family a lot, and his daughter is on the verge of dying. I hope by the time the letter reaches me, his daughter is not already dead. Apparently, Dave lives in Middletown Township of New Jersey, not that far from hence in New York City. I have no problems delivering supplies or money to him on foot. That is if I have the money. I do not have money or supplies to give out. The only thing I could give to Dave was disappointment.

The only thing that still gives us hope in this desolate city - the true form of this relentless capitalistic jungle - is Mr. Roosevelt’s fireside chats. I hope he gets elected.