Sometimes I think about the people I leave behind who remain trapped in time. I remember them the way they were. I’ll pass by them; I refuse to visit, but I’ll pass by and look. They still seem the same. They’re doing the same things. And I remember when they spoke to me, like I was one of them. This happens wherever I go. I am one of them, or, more often than not, there is someone there who recognizes I am not one of them. He’s watching. “You haven’t decorated your office. You’d better be careful or someone may think it reflects your personality.” And there is another guy who notices. “Look at this place; it appears like you won’t be staying here past tomorrow.” I never say what I’m thinking; I don’t want to be known; and they’re both right. One day, I’ll leave quietly and pass by the past.