There is much to be said for the steady monotony of the masses. But it's not for me.

Do they cry with heartbreak? Do they cry with joy? They fear being afraid, but is routine such an effective cocoon?

My mind flirts with various philosophies throughout the day. By noon I've settled on at least two. By dusk they've faded as the sun, setting with at least two more. Not to worry, the dawn will come with chance again.

There are some constants.

My existence serves no higher purpose. There is peace in that. My time here is all I have. The ego demands something spectacular be done with it, but provides no answers, leaves no hints, and I haven't an inkling.

But I will seek it for the rest of my restless days.

I am an old man. I am a young boy.