Observations from the stairs

A night bathed in pale orange light.
A boy sitting on a broken chair, he's asleep and I am watching him.
I am watching him from my perch, the cement steps of an old building.
On the outside, the building is purple, which is hard to tell because of the orange light, but I know for sure, because I held a lighter against to it to check.
A large portion of the wall has several rectangular windows, which have been painted several colors, and have writing on them with words like "Aupic luv's Pequino" and "Va te faire enculler sallope".
Inside the building a very loud punk show bursts through the cracks in the wall trying to get out.
Sound and fury leak through tiny spaces into the stale humid night, and the sound travels far, bouncing off the cement of the surrounding buildings and road.

Realizing that the music will only get louder and more awful I go outside to take a break and come across something more captivating than indescernable punk.
As I'm watching the boy shifts in his chair but to my amazement, as there are no armrests and the chair is at a tilt, does not fall off.He looks very peaceful, asleep and dreaming.
He is short for a boy of his girth, although taller than me, and he wears glasses, a dark polo shirt and dress pants, although he does not look dressed up.He stirs a little and I quickly look down to study the cracks in the sidewalk. Tiny grass shoots were finding their ways around the hard cement.
I look up and find him still in the chair, eyes still shut, his breathing steady.
"So sweet" I think, quietly in my mind.
Watching him makes me feel like I'm not there, like I'm just witnessing someone else’s dream, which gives me a strange sensation. “To this boy, I don’t exist although I am right across from him, I am invisible, indestructible, unattainable…nothing can sense me." I
think “ I am the ghost that haunts his dreams, the shadow in the corner of his eye…I am there, because he can sense my presence, but he cannot see me because he is lost in his thoughts, eyes closed to block out…” to block out what? Reality? Life? “The loud-as-hell punk band playing inside, obviously.” Says a voice in my head. That thought pops me out of my sedated state.
I’m not a ghost, or a dream or anything but a person staring at an unconscious, probably passed out, teenager who took too many prescription drugs not written to his name, and laid, wasted, on the first thing he saw that wasn’t the sidewalk.
"Broken boy, broken chair" I think “broken illusions”
"Thank ya'll very much tonight” someone from the band screams, "Y'all been great!",
"Thank you very much,” I think, watching him with lingering interest.Then I stand up, and walk away, down the cracked sidewalk bathed in orange,the last notes of the evening sending me drifting in the direction of home.