Despite everything, it's someone's story.

I was a star. I was insignificant. I was a coincidence. I was wrong.
I was an accident. I was unlucky. I was a curse. I was a disaster.
I was a fire. I was ashes. I was a sound. I was unheard.
I was a crumb. I was nothingness. I was a stain. I was shame.
I was a question. I was incomplete. I was a wall. I was cracked.
I was a tree. I was hollow. I was a flower. I was lost.
I was a road. I was impassable. I was a thorn. I hurt.
I was a memory. I was blurry. I was a fairy tale. I was short.
I was a bed. I was rotten. I was a ceiling. I was a hole.
I was a night. I was a miracle.

I was nothing. I was everything. Whatever I was, I existed. I was someone.
Someone you wouldn't want to shake hands with. Someone your eyes miss even when you carefully scan your surroundings. Someone, despite everything. My story, probably destined for emptiness, will soon be forgotten. Not being forgotten isn't part of life anyway. But... even the most unexpected people have their own written histories somewhere. His world is a ball, a disco ball. Sometimes dazzling, sometimes shattered, sometimes present, sometimes absent. Yet it always spins. Sometimes people come, sometimes people go. He and the disco ball are always the ones who remain.