The roar of the wind in the trees. The interior of my home remains quiet and listens. After months of nothingness, I went on a long trip, running through Singapore airport to catch a connecting flight, hanging about in Paris before boarding a plane home. The chandeliers seem dim tonight. One of my coats hangs over a chair. That trip was months ago. It was the end of last winter, before I moved in here. Many things have happened since then. I repaired some walls and planted a garden. I bought a car. I had some people over for my birthday. The garden is entirely dark. Superimposed upon it, however, is the reflection of this room, which is bright in contrast. I listen once again for the wind. It comes in strong gusts. It tests my front door – as though somebody were standing there, expecting me to hear them and let them in. But I know well enough that I have no guests or strangers calling. I am alone.

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