journal

Insomnia

I see what goes on in this neighborhood in the dark hours of the morning. The rundown truck that slowly creeps up the street, u-turning into the same parking spot each time.  He sits there as though he is waiting for something, but then he slowly drives away again. It’s strange how that spot is never taken. The tall black man who walks by three times a week. The two Mexican girls who live in the apartment behind me shuffle out of their car around 2:00am and walk swiftly to the gate. Me, sitting on the porch; pacing the sidewalk. They don’t even glance at me. I’m sure they see me. But I will never know them. We are all just strangers… passing through the night.

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