I like to listen to Liszt, I like to listen to the music on my headphones and observe the world. There is so much wrong with it, there's so much that has to be changed but there's little I can do from my wheelchair where I sit, trapped.

Through the first floor window I can examine the people; I can watch them and imagine what kind of lives they live. I sit in my chair, next to the table which always has a glass of Sprite bubbling away on it and look out at them. I inspect them and try to notice their differences as the sun's reflection changes every hour and makes my head throb. Sometimes I down a few Tylenols with my Sprite, it's supposed to help with the pain but they never seem to do very much even if they're extra strength.

My parents care for me, they have since I was born and they probably will until I can find someone else who is up to the task of babying me. I haven't found that person yet, I watch through the window and wonder if anyone will come along who means anything. Where are those people? My parents aren't a part of those people, they care for me but they can't understand me. No one can understand the loneliness and mental pain I go through every day just sitting here looking out the window.

I used to go to school, I used to socialize like everyone else, like a normal person but then I got sick and I stayed home and it was three weeks before I got back. I missed a lot and the teachers were sympathetic but not sympathetic enough, most teachers don't have enough time to look after one student who has needs like mine. I didn't really care. I just stayed home, I haven't gone back to school and apparently no one has noticed because no one called me to ask me how I was doing.

I started reading books once my parents started bitching at me; I started with Salinger and then I read some Orwell and some other satire and eventually I wasn't reading for my parents but for myself. I still read every now and then but I like making up my own stories. Sure, I could write 'em down or even use a tape recorder but then my parents would find out and they'd know how I felt. I don't want that to happen, I want to live a private life and my parents have at least realized that. Sometimes I don't see them until dinner and then there are some days where I just eat in my room alone and listen to the music.

Every day I wake up; I try to convince myself to do something about the situation I'm in. I think about trying to write down my stories on paper and then selling them so I could get lots of money. If I had lots of money maybe they could find a cure and I wouldn't be so miserable anymore, I could be normal. I'm unique but at a painful cost and sometimes I just want to be like everyone else. I wish I could walk, I wish I could know what it's like to be normal. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in this prison.

A lady walked by the house with some fluffy little dog, she didn't notice I was watching; no one ever does. The music tinkled away, the music soothed me and made me cry. Isn't that what music is supposed to do? I feel better when I listen to the piano music and the emotions pour out of me because then I know what I'm feeling and I know what I want. I'm in this shell, this never ending void and things seem like they'll never get better. I listen to the music and dream of the people I write about in my mind. That's where everyone real is, that's where all those wonderful human beings are and if I died tomorrow no one would ever know how much they meant to me. No one would even know they existed but it's not much of a shame because those people are for me and no one else. They're my happiness and no one else should touch them.

I dream about them. Did I tell you? I dream of those marvelous friends who I care about so much and that's when I know I'm going over the edge quickly. I dream of them and I meet them and I find out that they weren't just in my mind but they were real people who walked down my street every day. This is just my mind playing tricks on me of course but the happiness in those dreams is overwhelming. Those dreams are like days where the sun's too bright or days where it's snowing so hard that you can't keep your eyes focussed straight ahead.

I'll tell you about them, I'll write my stories for you and maybe you'll see what I mean. The sadness will escape you like it escapes me when I listen to Franz play away on the piano. Sometimes I need those people so badly, and all I can do is write about them and try to believe that one day someone will come along. I've ruled it out but who doesn't like getting surprises?

It was four months ago when I left school for good and I thought of this just after that happened. I was sitting alone, looking out the window and thinking of all those people being gone for good and this is what I thought of. I thought of Dennis Irving and Greg Kennedy and how everything changed for them one summer.

I was looking out the window and in a flash a guy about my age went by on a blue bike and I didn't see him again. He stayed with me though because he had a big grin on his face like he was on some kind of mission, like he out to change his life forever. I thought up a little story and named him Dennis Irving. Sometimes it takes the worst possible situation for people to do incredible things. That's what Dennis did that day or at least that's what I thought he did. Is that good enough? Probably. I could tell by the expression on that guy's face that he was up to something, something that would change the rest of his freedom filled summer.

Dennis Irving pedaled madly on his blue Norco bicycle, he'd picked it up at a garage sale for seventy-five dollars, a sweet deal, so sweet in fact that the lock and helmet had cost more than the bicycle. It was worth it too because bicycles had a sense of freedom to them. The wind was in your hair, you were rushing through the world where no car could go and everything was in reach. He felt like he was going off to freedom land. He hummed Beethoven's Ode to Joy which, as corny as it might be, always seemed to be synonymous for happiness.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, stung his eyes and dropped off of his nose. His shirt was stuck to his back and his knapsack was stuck to his t-shirt, it was the humidity, the weather network had said it would be going up to thirty-eight celsius with the humidity by one o'clock. It was going to be a damn hot day and he was on a mission, he was sure he was going to be across Baseline before Greg was gone forever.

He biked down Fisher, past the afternoon traffic and past the old men mowing their lawns in sweat stained undershirts. His hair was wet and dangled just above his eyes, it was almost time for a haircut but not quite. Greg liked his hair long and Dennis was slowly beginning to wonder if that style was for him as well. He continued pedaling like mad knowing that if he was a moment late he'd regret it, there was no turning back now, there was no chickening out this time because he had to meet Greg before he disappeared. Forever? He wouldn't allow his mind to wonder such things, he concentrated on the task at hand and forgot about failing. He couldn't fail after all.

Traffic was light but biking was difficult since he'd chosen the route on the west side of Fisher which was currently under construction. A housing complex was going up right across from the Experimental Farm, an ugly little thing where all the houses were squished together and all looked the same. He biked past a few construction workers who gave him a quick glance before he continued on his bumpy journey. Dennis could have very well cut through Fisher to get on the path east of the road but it wouldn't have been a wise decision even if traffic was light. One thing he had learned from biking a lot was that drivers were anal and didn't like cyclists getting anywhere near them.

He'd been talking to Greg for six years online but they'd never met and had only started talking on the phone a year and a half ago. They'd spoken lots of times on the phone in fact and it was only at first that Greg proposed that they have real-life interaction. Dennis of course had declined and said he was too nervous to do anything like that but now he was. Greg hadn't finally convinced Dennis to meet him, Greg had been threatening to disappear altogether because he was being kicked out of his house. He was a poor computer bum who was too far in debt. Upon noticing this the city decided to give Greg six months and then seize his house and kick him out. Today was that day.

Dennis had never believed this day would come even though Greg had forewarned him about it many times. He kept saying the date was coming nearer and nearer but Dennis never really believed it, maybe he was hoping for some kind of miracle, some kind of extension because it wasn't just some guy in danger, it was his friend. He couldn't let his friend disappear forever, he knew if that happened he'd be sadder than he ever had before. There'd be no one, no one to listen or to talk to him. Sure there were a few people at school, you can't go through high school without picking up a few friends but they didn't understand him like Greg did. Greg was something different, he was something special, he was also someone who knew everything about Dennis. Once Greg was gone all those wonderful things that Greg knew would also be gone.

He stopped at the corner of Carling and Fisher, it was one of the busier intersections of Ottawa so he knew he had to pay close attention to what he was doing. You never knew when some asshole driver was going to run a red light and plough you over like a lawn mower over a blade of grass. The light turned green and he crossed Fisher, the sweat irritated his eyes, he wiped it away with his sleeve and continued pedaling.

He'd studied the maps for the last three days, three days ago being the day he decided he was going to going to see Greg. He'd studied the maps so he'd know the path to take, a path which he eventually memorized. His planned route was to go down Baseline until he hit Farlane and then to go on to Kingshill which led to Castor Avenue.

Sometimes people just needed a friend, sometimes people just needed someone to talk to and to keep them company. Dennis and Greg kept each other company during their worst times, comforting each other when they needed it most, when there was no one else for them to speak to. They lived in their own world, no one was a part of it but them.

Dennis felt more than a little guilty for waiting so long before he went to see his friend. It was the day he was going to be kicked out forever, there wouldn't be another chance, there wouldn't be another tomorrow. Greg would leave, he'd drift around for a while before he finally met someone who'd take care of him. That was a little reassuring but only a little, for Dennis knew it would hurt more for him than it would for Greg. Greg would wander off and meet new friends, never forgetting Dennis but never weeping over the loss like Dennis knew he would. He was an emotional guy, he couldn't help it, losing Greg would be the saddest day of his life and he knew it would be even sadder if he never met his friend before he left.

On Baseline Road the traffic was heavy, trucks were whizzing by, cars were pulling into the Nortel building and pedestrians were walking around aimlessly. Nepean wasn't really a pedestrian friendly city, especially further along Merivale where all the big box stores like Future Shop and Toys R Us were.

Dennis finally crossed Baseline when the light turned green and started biking east on the sidewalk. His heart exploded into nervousness when he spotted Farlane, but despite the nervousness he turned on to the street; confident that there was now no turning back.

It was quiet in the suburbs, there was only the faint sound of lawnmowers and of children laughing and playing. It was a sharp contrast to Baseline Road where the sounds of trucks and cars never ceased. Dennis felt strangely comfortable in the suburbs even though there were only five different models of houses; most of these houses had especially tacky lawn ornaments. It was warm and friendly despite being the place where conformity spread like a quick acting cancer.

He finally spotted Castor and turned on to it, with a wave of emotion surging through him. He knew this was the street which Greg had lived on for some time, it had been his home and soon he would be torn away from it. He'd be tossed on to the street like some useless piece of trash that society didn't need. But that's what happened if you didn't follow the rules, you were tossed away and no one would really care. It was all bureaucratic bullshit where you couldn't get too attached to the people whose lives you were forever changing.

Some kids were playing street hockey at the end of the street. It was so typical. Two shabby nets, an orange hockey ball and the sounds of the wooden blades on the pavement. From where he was Dennis could hear the kids shouting to each other.

"Hey Matt, hit me over here," a kid with short black hair shouted. The kid named Matt passed him the orange ball and he missed the net by about two metres.

"Way to go Bryan," Matt yelled.

Dennis started to vaguely remember Greg talking about these kids; the local kids who were always up to no good. They were the product of suburbia and they were bored so they were always up for some good old fashioned vandalism. Broken windows, letting the air out of tires and all that fun stuff.

He passed the houses; all identical except in number. Twenty-nine, twenty-seven, twenty-five and then he spotted it. Twenty-three Castor avenue, a squalid little house with ugly orange curtains in the window. And Dennis' heart leapt about fifty feet when he saw there was a moving truck in front of the house. A bunch of guys were loading the various computer parts and junk into the truck, Greg's junk and Greg's computer parts. Dennis jumped off his bike and let it fall to the curb. He found he didn't care if the bike was broken. In a way he looked forward to a long and sombre walk home.

He watched the movers for a moment and then approached them. Like most movers they were quite large, bald and appeared brainless.

"What are you doing?" Dennis asked politely.

"Moving this shit man," the first mover said rudely.

"Yeah, get out of the way, some of this stuff is heavy."

"This is his stuff. You can't do this, this is his stuff. This all belongs to him!" Dennis gestured to the large pile of junk on the curb. Disk drives, modems, a thicket of cables, wires and cords. It all belonged to Greg and they were just taking it away.

"The owner of this house is gone," the first mover said. "We're bringing all this stuff to the Neighbourhood Services. Some of it's junk, but they'll probably be able to sell some of it."

"It belongs to him. You can't do this," Dennis said in a less demanding voice this time. The movers weren't going to listen to him, they were just doing their job like those filthy bureaucrats who had kicked Greg out in the first place.

He walked back to his bike and sat next to it on the curb. Above him the sun was still shining and the kids were still playing street hockey but his friend was gone and he wasn't coming back. It was a perfect summer day for everyone but him; Dennis knew the rest of the summer wouldn't be the same without Greg. Friends needed each other and they couldn't leave each other when they needed each other the most.

Looking up at the sun he knew he was close to tears. Not ashamed in the slightest, Dennis started sobbing silently. The movers weren't paying attention, neither were the kids playing street hockey. Everyone was going about their business.

He sat like this for what felt like a very long time. The movers had collected most of Greg's stuff and had driven off. Apparently there hadn't been enough room in the truck so they were going to make two trips. Wiping the tears out of his eyes Dennis started sifting through all the stuff which had once belonged to Greg.

He was sifting through the junk when a shadow fell over him. He didn't react at first until the person behind him spoke.

"Pretty good garbage day, huh?"

Dennis turned around quickly and saw a tall, but skinny guy with scruffy stubble on his face and long brown hair. He knew who it was right away and almost started crying again. The voice was enough to convince him. His bike was standing on its kickstand behind him.

"It's you?"

"Yeah, it's me. Who are you?"

"Come on. You've got to recognize my voice by now." Dennis thought back to all the phone conversations he'd had with Greg. Now Greg was in front of him and he found he could barely stand on his two feet.

"I'm guessing you're Dennis, but I've never really been good with voices."

"Yeah, it's me. Finally."

In a move out of the ordinary for him Dennis hugged Greg like guys weren't supposed to do. But he knew that they were friends like no one else was. They'd depended on each other.

"You came back?"

"Yeah, I came back to see if I could salvage any of this junk. Maybe sell it and earn a few bucks before I go on the road."

"Where are you going to go?"

"Montreal, probably. I have an acquaintance there who will put up with me for a while. They might even find me a job if I'm lucky."

"You're going to bike all the way to Montreal?"

"Yeah, it's no problem. I'll just camp out in a field if I get tired."

"I'm worried," Dennis said softly.

"I know."

"And I'm worried you're not worried about yourself."

"I think I'm finally worried." He picked up a few of the smaller computer parts and stuffed them into his back pack. "Those movers will be coming back soon so I better get out of here."

"Why do they care?" Dennis asked.

"They've been instructed to capture me if they see me. I was hiding out around the block, waiting for them to leave."

"I don't think I'll survive without you." Dennis said, he suddenly felt uncomfortable in the sun. He wished that the scene could have been like something out of the movies with rain and thunder. The mood didn't seem right with the sun shining and the lawn mowers buzzing.

"You'll manage and I might be back one day. I know where to reach you anyway. We'll meet up again one day. This was a big step for you, it means your shell is cracking."

"Yeah."

Dennis shook Greg's hand and then Greg biked away, he turned around once to wave and then he biked down the street with his long hair flowing in the wind. He turned the corner and he was gone and Dennis just somehow knew it was forever.

It had always been him and Greg against the world. They had been alone except for each others friendship and now that was gone. The bureaucrats had won, they had kicked Greg out and it was finally over.

In a perfect suburban setting, on a curb, under the hot July sun, Dennis sat and buried his face into hands and sobbed quietly. All around him life went on as if nothing had happened, as if the saddest thing which had ever happened to him had not happened at all.