I want to capture the moment. So take myself out of the picture. I can't really do that, I don't think. But all I am is a magnet for some channeled wanton I can't quite make out for the shadows.

People standing in a line, and soon the restlessness sets in so the cigarettes appear and consume the line in a cloud of poison that feels good to some and kills everyone else quickly. They laugh and look off into the distance sometimes, thinking of the familiar in the face of forced cordiality with strangers. The rain sets in. I didn't notice. The rain doesn't fall on me. I've noticed this a lot. The rain won't fall on me. As if a hole in the sky follows me around in order to keep me dry. But I like the rain, so I hold out my hands and the crowd looks at me and thinks I'm crazy.

They turn toward the wall, huddled under the awning. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The times ticks on, moves on but the o'clock we want lags along, won't ever reach us. The world will end before the time comes, won't it? is the general thought among the people of the line. The smoke grows thicker and a man asks if it bothers anyone. One man burns cloves, the others, tobacco. I enjoy the smell of one and choke on both.

The endless waiting. This is how most of the time is spent for us. Endless waiting for pointless trivialities that make the world go 'round. I join the huddle and press myself against the wall. The smoke is gone.

The wall is a window. I stare at myself in the window without realizing it and wonder why she's staring at me. What is it? I ask her but her lips move in time with mine and I realize that it's only me. I turn away.

The line moves. The time has arrived and in no time at all, we're in, we're out. I go back to my room, collapse. There it is. The emptiness trembling in anticipation of being filled up again. It won't come, though. I feel it coming but it won't come. Will it be years? Decades? Please, don't let it be years. Fill it up.

For the meantime, seek refuge. I seek refuge in the inspiration of everyone else. Hide away to find a bit of what you lost and suddenly you're not hidden at all. You're out in the open and the whole world's different but really exactly the same. Fiction binds me and I see the truth in it. Maybe I'll find the lie eventually. I need to find the lie. And then I can see past it all into what has come and gone in recurring waves of cunning, prodding me on along its path.

There it is. I won't search for truth. It tells me nothing. I must find the lie. The lie. Tell me the lie.

Ok, ok. it says. I will tell you the lie.