Sometimes I feel as if I have always been alone, waiting, weathering storm after storm, not sure why no one else has arrived, wondering when the show will begin. I hear sounds, I know the world is out there, but, somehow, here in the bleachers, I am solitary, forgotten, and have missed everything going on anywhere but inside my head. And I’m too tired to get to the exit. Too tired, with nothing left except an ending for something that never really began.Then, no, I think, no, there were once people here, the seats were filled, there were lights and songs and festivities and I think some of them knew me. Maybe, wait, was I out there too, being watched from these seats? But, no, I think, finally, not. But then, where did this shirt I’m holding in my left hand come from. It was yours, I think. It was yours, I know. It was yours. It was. I know. Damn this weather. Damn those steps. I’ll just sit here. And wait.