Here's something (or nothing)

Searching for something (not sure what, a character maybe), I wrote this in stream of consciousness style (as an exercise), in a coffee shop with the gold evening light coming in through the window.

Something happens, but what? Maybe nothing. We just follow the character. Why is he interesting? He wants to communicate, he wants to tell us something; something that matters to him. Maybe we don't want to listen, or we don't care. We should care. Yes we should. That seems to be precisely the problem, that we don't. He insists, he tries, he perseveres. We insist, however, in not listening. We have other things to do. Better things to do. But what? What is more important than listening to someone? Than trying to undestand someone? Then it becomes something else. We become something else. What? What we are, perhaps. What we invariably are: flesh and bone. And no soul, of course. Why would there even be one? We are born, then we die. Simple as that, nothing else. Then the light. The play of light, I should say; at the appropriate time. Not always there, but then...

The playful, joyous light that graces the page in such a way...yes, in a magnificent way! Something or other; at certain times something, at other times: other. Or the light. But when there is a purpose, something happens; it expresses itself in the shadows, in the faces, in the shadows of the faces, when the music stops, an instant after the sun sets behind the ships. Life goes on and we don't seem to mind. Should we care? Should we say what we want? When the light plays on, when the day draws to an end, and the shadows hide beside the tree. And they wait while we sleep, while we dream in the darkness of march.