It's quiet now.

I move through quiet spaces as a prowler moves through shadows--zigzagging, squinting my eyes to concentrate, to listen.

It's so rare these days that I find myself alone in our apartment.

Nearly ten months of not talking to my closest friends makes me a monster--standing very much alone, grotesque against my conscience.

I imagine myself in snowy greys, sharpened on the edges with the razor sharp point of a paintbrush's egg-gloss blackness.

Just as I have not been able to write here, I have been equally as paralyzed in uttering my existence beyond this apartment.

Of course, they forgive me. Their words hold relief; their voices question, but they are content to learn that I am still flesh as well as memory.

They are content to know that I have not forgotten them in shedding myself.

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