Silence. Like some fog on the radio sung by a woman – long dead now – which is about not wanting to leave this man, and somehow, she is okay with singing, or some footsteps coming from the apartment above you, which, like descending stairs, means something, then there’s the ticking of the overeager grandfather even after his pins fell out last night, and the fan, obsessively clawing at the windowsill on the tip of your middle finger thumping on the coffee table, before a door, which means someone might be coming. All this cold, dry sunlight at the end of winter, greeting you, as there have been mornings and evenings for a long time now. The people you love, and will see again soon, how they are busy moving from place to place without you, but closer to you, closer to the end of winter. You look at the orange coffee table, the orange oven mitts, the orange cigarette filter in the bottom of a German teacup, and your brown-orange leather carry bag, which you now sling over your shoulder in a second, just before you walk into the dry sunlight, through the dry lines intersecting what you imagine as your busy and determined life.