They say nothing to me I say nothing to them. Sometimes I can't believe this is home. I've heard it before. I thought I'd been over that. You'll never really pass the things you're afraid of. The man on the plastic bag looks like terror. He's staring at me. I can't say why. His face seems spoiled. When I think of calling a friend, I notice that most of them have mutilated into acquaintances Maybe that's my fault, maybe it's a form of getting old I'm used to small talk at the moment.