"He is a lamp light at 3:57 in the
morning, when your back is hunched, bent at the weight the
darkness brings along. And he is that lukewarm coffee on the
other side of the table that you forgot about, because you were
were too busy wasting all your breath painting pictures on a
window pane. And you try to remember how many nights it's
been, or has it only been a mere few hours and can it all be
measured by the number of times you've seen the moon, the
number of times you've left that coffee cool, the number of
times that you've told yourself that you'll be better
now. You'll forget about it now."
-and you could've sworn you saw
him on the other side of the
road, but it seems it was only
the shdow of a burnt-out lamp post
