Meet Gavin.  We were strangers when we met, but I immediately trusted him. I was blinded from cheap whisky and he from staring into the sun...the laughter of mechanical birds and their hideous gawking made it impossible to think.  "Their eyes are now upon us and like rats in a maze they make their way towards us with uneasy eyes and waterproof jackets" I remember saying.  He laughed and said something along the lines of ketchup being funny, and brown sauce too serious.  At the time I wasn't sure what it all meant.  

 Projection.  An intended plural of the word.  What does it actually mean to project oneself onto another?  What is it we are projecting?  Our fears?  Our Hopes?  Anxieties?  Our desires and sexual fantasies.  Is it a way of coping with a non-eventful privileged white skinned life.  Guilt. Aye, thats it boy, now you're onto something.  He knows that it is the guilt that motivates the sociopathic, yet is not fooled by their feathers and false nature.  But at the same time he remembers that we drink cold beer while children die from lack of water. 

*            *            *

I have stood witness to love and a respect, and to an ever fleeing patience.  

What happens now?  A question I have many times asked before. We wait.  We wait for help.  We wait for our hair to grow back or our mothers to come home with bread or good news.  We wait for the flames and our inevitable demise.  We wait for love.  And for breakfast and the chance to sing a Bonnie Prince Billy song together.  We wait for each other, with the knowing that we wait for no one.