Now I sit among those who return my loud smile. They rest gazes upon me, swirling their eyes around my head, which remains fixed in the stationary center of the circle. Back in the sub-cultural social geometric shape I’d run away from a year before. Once again a part of the clan. Whatever threads hold these souls together, I am made from another loom. There is some alien force that ties them together. I can put it on and they think I am one with them. Many of these nights when we sit on the stained carpets in the basement without heat it’s my wit that gets me through. Wit and sarcasm and my ability to jest. I am not there, though. I am not present and accounted for. This is what I need right now. I would rather be completely alone with others than without them. It is like putting a movie on for background noise. They laugh and speak intelligently and namedrop and play music and yell and eat and breathe it all in. A part of their clan, now I too different a scenario for my unrestrained imagination to comprehend. Listless I had been, a man on the cusp of boyhood – new to the life age declares us when so oft we had longed to be there. And in our retrospective daydreams, we put ourselves back, through time, and picture the big world from a small body – our lungs unaltered, our minds unexposed, our grass-stained sleeves – pleasure blows like the summertime breeze as the sky is painted at dusk. The artist works in rotation, twice a day, and the show is open to all. Even if I am the sole audience member, dawn’s palate will not be spent in vain. I will go searching for my sky-gazing soul mate, for it is clear they are not any of these glazed-eyed shells.