In the end, they're all blurs.

Passing through the streets, some stopping to say words at me

Fewer seeking the words that I can give to them.

Unsure.

Each next one more insecure than the one preceeding.

It's apparent we are all needing of it.

With each step, I try to find what I left behind from the previous stride.

The only thing that I can feel is that everyone else has found their I-T.

Not me.

But who am I to convince you that I'm real too?