A Bedtime Story for the Lonely William Hu, Year 11 Once, heavy eyes, mist. Wisps rise from stagnant pipes in an afternoon alley. The rain is soon engulfed in the maw of a clouded puddle; the pitter patter here is just a little softer than the commune of glass giants in a neighbouring street. Listen to their footsteps! Cavernous and slavish, like stalactites, they approach. Yet by the driftwood curb of a listless lane, they too, slip without words into a drain. Their waves are just ribbon tails rounding a corner - They spoke, ‘goodbye’, once.