He sits at the window by candle light, jotting his thoughts on a tattered pad.

The people pass and he pins judgments on each. Like tiki darts his mind pierces the innocent.

Some walk too slow. Some should stop but don't. Most should not be on the streets at this dark hour.

These are the shapes his pain take. She's gone, never to return. Her memory is a scar, a disfigurement of his soul.

"Have you healed?" another asked. "Don't know if one ever does completely," he remarked.

Now, in his silence, he ponders again the question. Why are bodies made of different material than the spirit? Flesh rebounds, given time and nutrients. Why does not the soul? Muscle repairs, skin grows over. But a chunk of one's soul cannot be replaced. Vacuum remains a vacuum.

The dice, once tossed, are not picked up and tossed again, it seems, he thinks. And he remembers his disgust for volumes written, philosophy disguised as prose.

The figures passing keep his mind from the haze. They serve as useful vessels of his disdain. They ignore each other handily. They retreat at their own pace carrying the mark of the voyeur.