The place where you get off.

Outside the station, she stands with her child on the side of the street, taking pictures of cars. You think she's insane. Until, one day, you notice that she's taking pictures of the license plates of the cars her child gets into.

Because you look. But, you do not see.

And she walks out the shop with bags full of cat food. You think she's some crazy cat lady until you find out, she has no cats.

Because you eat. But, you do not taste.

It's been a while since their last album but he assures you, he's doing just fine these days, white flecks on his nostrils. Then he asks you if he can spend the night on your couch, even though it stinks.

Because you sniff. But, you do not smell.

And they say "Just OK" when you ask them how school was. Then you wonder what they're hiding until you find their diary and the last entry reads "I wish you'd give me some privacy."

Because you listen. But, you do not hear.

And they've got a bruise over their eye and you run the tips of your fingers over it and how ask them how it happened. You believe them. Until it happens again.

Because you touch. But, you do not feel.

And they walk past you everyday, one million stories, each waiting to be told. Waiting for you to ask.

Because you live. But very few, care.