There's an old man who lives down the street from me. There might be one who lives down the street from you, too. Every day that I pass his house I see him, sitting on his porch, or by the rusted front gate. He's never with company; always alone. I see him early in the morning, late in the afternoon, any time of the day. He sits, idling, watching, lonely. He's passing the rest of his time on this world with the nothing for entertainment. Nothing except passersby and jobless birds. Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring.
Sometimes, when I see him, the orange glow of sunset on his blank, wrinkled face I wonder if anyone in my neighbourhood has ever had the courage to talk to him. To say, "Hello". To ask him the obvious questions, "What's wrong with your internet connection? You're locked out of your house, aren't you?"
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