I’m sitting alone in Grand Central on an old deteriorating wooden bench. I wonder how old it is. How many people have sat here alone like myself or with a friend, a relative, or a lover. I wonder how many of them were confused tourists and how many simply had no home to go back to, no bed to sleep on, and no family to confide in. Were they reading newspapers? Books? Magazines? Or did they opt to stare off into space? Or did they write like me… Or did they look over the shoulder of the person who chose to write.

Like you, sir, huffing and puffing into my scalp.

A train stops in front of me and bodies shuffle around, eventually becoming a wall of blurry intertwined legs and muffled voices.

I’m sitting alone in Grand Central on an old deteriorating wooden bench, writing and listening to a lone saxophone crying in the background; its wailing songs can break the coldest of hearts.

I wonder how many others have done the same.