I walk into the mystical night-air
The cool, moist feeling buries my face and my skin
Bumps rush up my body like fireworks
I walk down the street past house after house
Identical
Each gray with brown shingles, perfectly round and green hedges line the base of the homes
A train's horn sounds in the distance and one by one the street lamps turn off
I stop walking
I am surrounded by silence; one lamp seems to stay on
It flickers and goes out
As the darkness clamps its cold fingers on my body, I start again, to walk
I think now, from time to time when it is our time to flicker, and go out.
My thoughts run through my head when I find myself at my doorstep
I think now of how we are like the street lamps
One by one every morning we turn on
And by night we turn off
But who is that one that flickers?
Is that one person, an outcast, the one person that is not identical like the houses?
Is that person me?
I look at my house, square wilting hedges line the base, black shingles make up the roof, and the color on the outside is brown.
We are that flickering bulb
That person is me
I am that difference
That person is me