A thousands little bugs

are crowding round a lamppost.

For a moment they seem to outnumber the stars.

Even now I can still see those tiny bugs

flitting around my memory

and tickling me with fond thoughts—

I,

like the bugs,

am surrounded

by people like me.

I,

like the bugs,

am seemingly silent

though I have much to say.

And we,

like the bugs,

are crowded around a lamppost—

A light of days to come, perhaps,

or the promise of something more.

Nothing is for certain

except this lamppost,

except these tiny little bugs,

except this pitch black timeless sky,

except the uncertainty of a late summer evening.