He walks. He walks because there is no where for him to stop. I walk as well. I follow him. I talk to him. We walk under the same umbrella when it's raining. When we must stop for rest, we share the same blanket. He says I am his best friend. I say he is my best friend. We work. We work when we must stay for a few days to make money, we work in a restraunt. We gather tips and a week's paycheck then leave. Sometimes we sell papers. When the selling of papers is slow, we sit down together under our umbrella and read the paper. We like the comics. We run. We run when they come after us. With their flashing lights and black and white cars. I tell him that I bet our faces are on the milk cartons and he agrees. I love him a lot. That's what's best. We love each other. We love each other because there is no one else to love us. We are the only ones we know that love us. I love him and he loves me and that's all we know, really. He walks. He walks because he doesn't know where he's going. I walk. I walk because he walks. We walk. We walk because we love each other, and nothing changes that as we walk, hand in hand, he holding his umbrella over us and I, holding the blanket against me. We walk in the ditch. We love. We love because we are the only ones. We kiss. We kiss because we love. We walk.
"Steve Irwin died doing what he loved...getting stabbed in the heart by a stingray."