Thick, Tight Fists

I have hidden from everything, in the late of evening, with my hands shoved deeply in my pockets and clenched in thick, tight fists. I am not angry; I am just holding on to what I can. The buildings flush by me and I don't see the faces that pass because my gaze is not a gaze but only an impression that I have eyes. I know that people, also with clenched fists, rush along but I feel no bond between us. I have never met anyone who excites my notion of things, who questions me or even understands enough to smile at my cowardice and dramatics. But then again, I cannot see people, I can only see through them.