The man took a bold step outside into the sunlight.
His glasses began delicately shifting to a shade of gray:
this made others around him feel uncomfortable.

These things happen I suppose.
They always happen.
I used to care about something, you know.
I did.
I used to feel something when I stared at the sky.
Now the hardwood feels cold under my feet,
and my lungs have lost their warmth.
The clouds eat me whole as I walk home.
They smile.
Sometimes I do too.
But I've wandered too far this time,
these steps don't look familiar.
Someone still sleeps inside this house,
but it's not me.
Someone still lives inside these bones,
but it's not me.

Sitting among seven strangers
sharing stories and shepards pie.
I found myself talking to a man named Rick.
Rick was homeless and out of work for eight years.
No loving family.
You see, he began talking to me
Telling me his story.
I listened, pondered.
I did not ask many questions.
He just talked and talked.
I was somebody he could talk to.
He is 50, he outlined a few of his struggles.
He told me during Christmas time...
He didn't want to make it to 51
Because he was lonely.
Lonely.
Lonely?
Lonely.
Billions of people on the planet..
And he's lonely.
Lonely.