Whenever I return to the gay enclave of the Castro District in San Francisco, my mind is immediately flooded with memories of old friends who are long since dead. Many years ago, when I was an 18 year old boy, I walked into the neighborhood as a somewhat starry-eyed dreamer thinking that my gay porn fantasies and childhood recollections of The Village People were about to come true. While I did see my share of beautiful men who looked like living versions of the drawings done by Tom of Finland, I also saw a good number of walking corpses, with blotchy skin and sunken faces, who were simply biding their time until the AIDS virus coursing through their veins finally took them down for good. Now, I have returned to offer my gay brothers and sisters another way of life: a chance at happiness and redemption with Jesus Christ. But, sometimes, I see shadows, little sparks of remembrance, and bits of memory floating through the air: and, I almost see one of my old friends, Andy (inset picture above), Scott, and even Nick, fleeting glimpses of them walking around the corner. I turn suddenly, and then realize that no one is there. Right away, I remember that they are gone. Yet, I can still see them clearly and it seems like just yesterday, not over 20 years, since they have been missing. Frequently, when I think of them, I can’t stop crying. But, on those same streets, that we once walked together, they call out to me: “No more…” “Now more blood will be pointlessly spilled.” “No more…”