I can’t love life until it starts raining, for that is when life prevails. People scurry in every direction, as raindrops fall like mortar shells. They hide under tattered awnings and in cracked walls, with only the brave walking the streets. Their existence is slowly washed away. Few people survive, and even fewer press on. Souls are swept along the road. Cobblestone, made from the skulls of the weak. People who were stepped on in life, now lead your steps to death. A quiet fellow. Old, embodied in a young boy. He sits on a bench, it’s the end of the road. He has many acquaintances, but few friends. They meet him everyday, here, on this bench. They don’t stay long. He fears that he’s pushing them away. He has always had a soft heart, which leads most to say that he isn’t fit for this world. He’s grateful for what he has, though. He lives through the people who visit him, trying to capture as much of them as he can. But, alas, it is time for them to leave. With a slender finger, he etches their initials into the wooden slat as they disappear into the distance. And he sits there, waiting for his next visitor. The longer it takes for one of them to show up, the more he thinks that his time has finally come.