The act of speaking, of hearing a voice, my own, in this empty house, pulled some kind of stopper. It let something into the room, some kind of feeling. The feeling was mine, even as I observed it, watched myself as if from above, from up near the ceiling of this room, a room I would soon leave forever, as I would leave this false life. There was a girl below, on the bed, in this room. She had tears on her face, this girl. And her face was my face, and her tears were my tears.
