Being alone is strange,
its like the pages of a book that aren't filled in,
or the stages of a play not yet acted.
And as the storyline of my life continues,
I see others fall into each other,
leaning to taste each other's softness,
But I'm still here,
pasted in this white wall,
blank with words of imagination and delusion,
and I wonder why I can't find anyone for myself
as others do,
and I think, why am I still alone?
- Counting Sheep