This morning I went to another funeral; it’s the third one this week. It was so sad, and rainy, and they lowered the little boy down in the hole. I always wonder how heavy are those coffins anyway. It’s such a waste. The family looked devastated, nobody paid attention. Nobody noticed. But I was there. It’s easier that way, when you’re invisible, when you’re nothing, no one. I’m not as crazy as the people in the streets seem to think. Surely, sometimes, I ramble with myself, I argue with myself, out loud even, but it doesn’t make me a mad man now, does it? I know what they think when, at times, I appear in front of them all dirty and reeking, begging for change, intruding in their pretty delicious and scentless world. I know what they think; what they will say about me when they feel safe and home, in the confines of cosiness. I know. Every bit of thought they have I’ve had. But I don’t care. Think of me what you wish. I have my own world, my own life, my own self. There is something strange going on. Not that I mind it though. Strange doesn’t bother me to be honest, it used to. But I see signs here and there, and signs never lie. Like coffins never die. They don’t see it, obviously. They never see anything until it’s too late; until it’s gone. I’m sure those people loved that boy, they just realised how much once he put down there. It’s such a waste. Everything is too dark for them, too dark to see. And I remember what he said; he was the first one to admit it. Once you let the darkness inside, it never comes out.