Walking down the street. Nothing new really. It is a crowded street, in the middle of the city. Though I should feel out of place, being a small town boy, I feel right at home. The city is in my blood I guess. Whether the city made its way into my parents through osmosis is unknown, but I like to think it did. It appears to be rush hour, or crush hour as I dub it, based on the physical challenge of actually making progress down the street. Hundreds, if not thousands, are flooding the sidewalks. Impatient cars honk their way through the endless traffic, traveling inch by inch towards home, towards their own piece of what we call the normal life.

On the sidewalk, I glance at as many passing people as possible. I see people of all races, physical statures, and looks. People with different clothes. Beautiful women. Punk guys. Ugly women. Preppy guys. None of them seem to notice me. I eventually reach about a five-foot break between one crowd and another. A woman is heading towards me. She glances up, and for a second, our eyes meet.

I wonder what is behind those eyes. Under her seemingly normal exterior there could be years of pain and sorrow. Frustration, cold hearted- ness, the urge to be loved. A wrecked childhood, a friendless life, a deep yearning for a peaceful existence. A sense of hopelessness, the ever present fact that she is locked in the same subconscious groove, day in and day out, with maybe a day or two's space every so often to sit back and think about it. A hatred for one person, for all people, a burning fire that is never to be extinguished. Fantasies of revenge, fantasies of sex, fantasies of relaxation, of hope, of inner peace, of stardom.

Thoughts of me?

Yet there could also be years of happiness and joy. Productivity, tenderness, the urge to love. A normal and influential childhood, a life full of friends, a certain gladness that she has a normal life. A sense of hope knowing that there are many great things in life and that there is time to enjoy them. Love for one particular person, or for all people, a burning fire never to be extinguished. Fantasies of love, fantasies of motherhood, fantasies of relaxation, of life, of coolness, of stardom.

Thoughts of me?

But maybe there is nothing behind those eyes. No feelings for anyone. Maybe she is an alien. Maybe a robot. Could Vonnegut be right? Could everyone be a robot besides me? Or am I one too? The only one who feels, hopes, cares. An outcast.

Our eyes part. She walks by, and seconds later is replaced by yet another crowd of all sorts of people. People of all races, physical statures, and looks. People with different clothes. Beautiful women. Punk guys. Ugly women. Preppy guys. All with the same feelings and senses and thoughts hidden deep inside. Things that few people know. It is almost overwhelming to think about it. We truly are unique. Unless we are all robots. No matter though. I continue on, the crush stays in full flight, the world keeps turning, and all six billion of us, with our hopes, dreams, feelings, and thoughts, keep moving on.