I am the Lonesome Cowboy, after-hours rogue, who silently crawls behind the newspaper stacks to nap and wakes, in solitary fashion, hours after the library has closed for the summer. Left uniquely, unqualifiedly, non-gregariously, non-socially alone, a complete singleton with dust on my pants and books in my lap and no one in sight for months, all silent and still. Yippee, my friend.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, counting sand by candle light. It is a pleasant occupation, not meant for hasty or impatient folk, but often quite the exact thing to pass a long night alone, as so often happens in my life. Two.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, letting my subscription to Better Homes & Gardens expire. It seems about the right time, don't you think?
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, on the beach at midnight, in a pouring rain, wet through, the only way that I don't feel so alone.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting here with all I own — two boots and a saddle. Even my horse has moved on.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. If you have seen me then you have not. If you have heard me then have heard only silence. If you think of me, ever, then no, you have not. I am but the lost memory of a vanished flicker of thought, one that cannot be visited or held in the mind. I am not stationary, or reliable, and my name does not appear in books, or on plaques or monuments. I am evanescence itself. Now, if you please, I must go. It is time to miss lunch yet again.
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Me? Recently ignored by everyone.
