a man

A single man with his face behind the window is gazing at the street. Everybody is running but he is just staying and watching them. Is there any need to run? Or speak, or talk, or cry? He does not think so. Unfixable skepticism had covered all the beauty that a young boy inside of him could see one time. It was time of restless nights, crazy girls, and beer and best friends. He said “friends” outloud to himself as though he tried to remember what that word meant. None of them even bothered to call him since the time he saw them for the last time.
He looks at the street, while lonely crowd of desperate to the bone so called “individuals” is trying to make it somewhere, talking on the cell phones, listening to iPods, smoking, chattering and calmly waiting for the bus.