Fate, or God, or whomever had brought them together. One night after getting too angsty with your parents, there he sat. Right on the warehouse stairs you usually ran to when you needed time alone. Time to think and to smoke. That was months ago. For some reason the ever stoic and quiet Harlow, he never bothered to mention his last name, kept meeting you. He seemed to tolerate your pondering or rantings. He always simply smoked and on occasion added his commentary. Tonight, upon your approach he just held out a cig from where he sat.

What musings have you got on your mind tonight?