A bench. A lonely bench I found in the park, isolated from the rest of the scenery. Shy, hidden from the rest of the world. Out of sight.
Perfect.
   It is wet from the heavy rain pouring down on us both, and, still, I sit on it. I take out of my pocket a little poetry book. It's pages barely staying together. I open it right on my favorite poem. I read it over and over again, even though I already know it by memory.
   I read and read, staying always fixated on the same page, on the same poem, always on the same bench under a never ending, heavy rain.


   A playful dog found its way into my hideout. It has no collar, no leash, no bonds to anyone or anything. It sniffs my hand. It looks up at me. It barks. It leaves.
   He didn't find anything worthy of its attention. Just an old man sitting on a bench, with some wet paper in his hand, blank and unreadable. Lifeless.

   Everything lifeless.