Sitting here, outside the stage door, is like sampling the whole world at once—all the languages, all the potentials.

And in the distance the flashing of billboards and electric lit signs—the trash is out for the night, huge piles of black and white and blue bags stuffed and piled waist high down the curb on both sides.

And the song of car breaks and horns; the delivery truck idling across the street; suitcases rolling along the pavement.

And the car radios tune in an out of a million different stations that touch me—all—before flitting off again.

I could have been anyone who’s passed me by but I wasn’t. I’m not.