I am waiting for them. I can feel them in the sun. They are in the clicking sound of her clipping her toenails and they are in the way she ignores me when she is angry. They are under the car where the cat sleeps its days away. They are in a baby’s tears and in his fat little hands. They are in the night when you are alone and no one loves you. And they are in the graveyard. In the bakery window. On the shelf, in the cupboard with the teacup with the chip in its handle. They are in the spilled over bottle of beer. They are all out there. I am waiting for them. And they are waiting for me. Waiting for me to catch them up and let them all go again.