Sometimes he looks up at the stars and wonders whether he'll ever do it again with someone at his side. Sometimes he hears steps behind him and he turns around, filled by that irrational, hateful hope, that somebody, somebody, is walking towards him. Sometimes he thinks he feels something, a presence, next to him, doing the same. Sometimes, he believes. And then he puts his coat-collar up and tightens the scarf and walks away because the stars are meaningless. Because he had his own one. Leaning heavily on his stick, he walks away and tries to forget.
Sometimes he looks up at the stars and wonders whether he'll ever do it again with someone at his side. Sometimes he hears steps behind him and he turns around, filled by that irrational, hateful hope, that somebody, somebody, is walking towards him. Sometimes he thinks he feels something, a presence, next to him, doing the same. Sometimes, he believes. And then he puts his coat-collar up and tightens the scarf and walks away because the stars are meaningless. Because he had his own one. Breathing harshly from the chase, he walks away and tries to remember.
Sometimes they look up at the stars and wonder whether they'll ever do it again with no-one at their side. Sometimes they don't hear steps behind him and they turn around, filled by that irrational, hateful fear, that somebody, somebody, is not walking with them. Sometimes they think they can't feel something, the presence, next to them, doing the same. Sometimes, they fear. And then they put their coat-collars up and tighten the scarves and walk away because the stars are meaningless. Because they have their own one. Breathing harshly from the chase, they walk away and live.