Not sure what in writing yet. I'm on my phone. But these usually lead to comedy or tragedy. Here goes nothing. 

    Once upon a time there was an old man who had no one. Everyone had died, disappeared or been shunned. He lit a cigar. He sits by the window every morning. The cat comes by to check on him, but otherwise sits too. 

       The old man has nothing to do most days anymore. No friends, no family. That cat though. But even he doesn't care much for the old man. He was bothered by this for many years, but he's become content in his solitude. He has all the time in his world to do as he pleases. 

     He reads, writes, watches people walk by down on the sidewalk. Sometimes in the street. Most recently, he paints.  

      He doesn't know how old the cat is. A stray from the fire escape. That rascal kept sneaking in through the open window on hot days and would drink his 3rd cup of coffee when he went to evacuate his bowels (from the first 2 cups). The old man would come out to discover this alley tramp in his coffee and shoo him off and out the window. 

    Then, he began welcoming the starving thing in as an act of routine. Some days he'd fret for days not seeing him if he never came. But he always would after his vacation and soon he stayed. He sits on the window now, rarely leaving. But when the old man gets too drunk from beer, rum or on the rare occasion wine, he'd scurry out and return the next morning for breakfast and coffee. Strangely, he likes it dark. 

     The old man leaves too on occasion. Not only for the mail downstairs which these days was scarce or not-so-good, but for a drive. Usually to nowhere. Mobile people watching. In traffic, highways, downtown, parking lots. 

      once a week on an empty day he'd go bowling. Candlepin. He wasn't quite sure how some of those alleys kept their doors open but he went. He wasn't so lean or nimble anymore but could bowl like an ace. The other old men and occasional young couple or family would stop and watch him. 

    "You're not bad." They'd say, coming over to watch. "I used to be better." He smirked at them right before plowing a spare or strike. The sound of those pins crashing was music to his ears. Most times the management would forget to play anything on the speakers. Only the sounds of the alley.  

      In his younger days, he wished a lot for what he wanted. To travel, to see the world. To experience, cabins, city apartments, Suburban two-stories, ranches, colonials, split-levels, trailers, motorhomes.  Cottages, beach houses, mansions, huts, cars, shacks, basements, roofs, castles, benches. 

      Lakes, mountains, valleys, cities, plains, oceans, deserts, fields, hills, woods, forests, the wide open and the not-so-wide open. To do and have done, to receive bad news and good, to overcome. Beaters, hotrods, tire-kickers, convertibles, vans, sedans, classics, shitboxes, lemons, diamonds. To love, and be loved.  

     But here he sits by the window. Watching.