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Why am I here?
Why am I what
I am? Like
they say, I was
never asked for
my opinion:
my arrival and
eventual departure.
The sky, no matter
how long I stare
at it, acts a silent vault.
The sea only answers
with blue-green
uncertainty.

- mrdes, 25 Oct 12, Thursday, 1842 hrs.

Questions were asked, and remain unanswered. Even the sky, tired of my childish, at-the-dinner-table babble, turned its face to dusk. Just across, our neon-bustling neighbour. Here, a few shadows walked as the clouds began to crowd out the last fading sun. The strait ran inky and dense. Even the last child fisherman, or perhaps he was a fisherman's child showing off his father's brand new rod, had called it a day. Then, the evening joggers, having came a long way and triumphed over distance, huffed in pride over ideative finishing lines. They almost turned to gold in their last strides.