I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting in the shade under a bending bush, sheltered from the soft shine of the stationary moon, counting, one by one the pleasant rounded contours of the members in my pebble collection, all anonymous for the present, though soon to have names, each and every one, my quiet little companions.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, the one, the onliest, the most lonesomest. But I am in no record books. My name, such as it is, appears in no lists and has no rank in any register. My visage continues unrecognized and has never been captured by any photo-graphic apparatus. In other words then, I am every man, and by extension, also everyone, and everything, and remain aloof and free and untethered. The end.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Boots, jeans, flannel shirt, blanket, saddle, pillow — all I own any more. Passing time next to my horse, I occasionally toot my tiny tootle flute. What else can one do? And is not this enough?
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. You have never heard of me, and never you shall, for I am but a ghost, a phantom, the shade of a shadow — just me and my tooty flute, Annette, who I lovingly massage with my finger tips and invigorate with my warm breath to pass the long, long, lonely nights.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Who? you may ask. No one, I may reply. For such it is. Such is my life. So is my soul. No one. Not one, not many, not who or why or when or what you may think, or casually assume. For I am the one, the only, only one Lonesome Cowboy, here alone, not one of may, not much on my own. Just here, just now, and so soon gone. Farewell, then, and may you at the end at least be well.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. You may have heard of me, but not likely. You may have seen me, but without noticing. You may have heard me, without listening. I may have passed by, entirely anonymously, no more than a faded, silent shadow.
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And me? Who?
