I see you passing by through subway drains and tar pit downfalls. I see you. I feel you in the recess of my mind, haunting, teasing my mind; my senses. You’re what I compare myself too. What I long for and what I ran from. You are the mirror image I base my life upon. You embody my fears and desires yet you have no name or origin. You simply are: simply breathing, beating, seeing all and knowing all. I want to be you, and I want to be all and none. You know all the secrets, yet whisper none. You walk along the shadows gripping and climbing the walls. You burn and seethe in the light, you disperse against the fog and your screams are nothing but the non-ceasing sirens outside my window. Stranger, stranger, aren’t we all strangers? Aren’t we all nameless beings that carry within ourselves the potential to be someone? To be someone bold, bright and cunning. To be someone proud and someone awarded. We are everyone and someone, but at the origin of it all, strangers. Strangers that in life may kiss, may hold, may love one another. Strangers are what we all are born to be. Strangers are our starting point, our origin, we have the power to run and break and mold ourselves into the individual we present ourselves to. If not us, then who will shape our jelly like skeleton into the great David that Michael Angelo once did? I want to be someone; I want to be made out of Gold and Ivory, of the most indestructible material out there. I want to be known, I want to be recognized, and strip this leathery skin of a Stranger.