I walk past windows to restaurants. I watch as people talk over small portions of seaweed and shrimp, sipping white wine like a false prophet. There's this place towards the Quayside with a grand piano in the entrance. I have come to think in my novelty wisdom, that I shall never make an entrance so grand.

Lovers draw cash out of fat wallets. They're white and healthy with smiles that almost reach up to the corners of their eyes. They stare across silk flowers, drunk on the positive affirmation spewing from the weak-kneed waiter, bursting dullness like the fat around his waistcoat. In routine exchange of his verbatim stand-up act, both parties part without sentiment, but in comfort.

Straws sit in cocktails. Even they're paired up and bathed in elusive spirits, far beyond anything my bank account or inner eye could afford to indulge. Passing joys are ripe, donated amongst the thick-skinned royalty to passers-by like myself, who cannot experience happiness, but can at least know that is exists. Each joy temporal in the promise of another, they don't cling to their memories and instead lay anew, anew – all the time.

I am a ****** of pastoral care. I know that now, after looking in. I have noticed that windows are there for observation. Each window a chance to witness creation, found in science, in art, in conversation. For too long I have stood here, thrown dizzy in the wind. For too long I have been waiting for nobody, hoping that somebody will pick up the pieces. I am in pieces. It's plain to see as I walk away.