Whenever I’m in a car and I look out the glass window at the different cars passing by, I think about the people in those cars. What’s their story? Why are they in those cars today? Maybe they’re simply on their way to work or maybe they’re confused teens running away from home. Everyone has an interesting story. Whether they think it is or not, it always is. But our eyes blind us to the truth. Then I saw the light. It seemed to be the brightest thing in the world. Rushing towards my dark-haired friend and I. He was hurt much worse than I. And all I could think about was stories.
This thought may be my last.
