Where are you, my old friends?
I am always alone here in the evenings, on the weekends.
There isn’t much air in this place, in this box, in this little enclave, though the echoes of a hundred foreign footsteps are everywhere behind me. I wonder how they can continue so long? None of them understand; none of them can know; none of them know why; none of them are here.
Neither am I, blue as I am, white as I am. I went all the way down the staircase and didn’t find another door; it leads nowhere, just like me, and together we are a wandering pair; lower and lower, deeper and deeper. We have a kind of shared purpose; if only there were lights, I’d stay. I’d stay. If only I could avoid this box, I’d breathe again. I am alone.
I am alone.
I wonder. I wonder. I wonder. Perhaps next I’ll go higher.