one week. mostly it’s the sounds that impress, the rumours of events that gather import as they travel in the empty house. a slammed car door. the bin wheels on concrete, a rumble that could mean anything. low voices pass in the night only one wall away. sure i was alone in that housing commission unit, that time. it was a long way back. maybe it’s the remnant of danger resurfacing. the way sound could & did mean something a little more. a break in; a stabbing; strangers at the door. it’s the flipside of peace-&-quiet, the sudden ruptures breaking a calm surface. mostly though it’s nothing. a deliberate nothing. i watch parks & recreation & read. i sleep without a reference point, without consideration, soundly. if the girls worry they don’t show it & also, if they’re resilient there’s little evidence. this is simply is the way it is. ours is a weekend life. the potential for alternate courses perhaps only exists later, in retrospect, when you’re older. had this happened / et cetera / the assignation of blame. objects remain obscenely ordered. silly. the plush toys static & a dearth of dishes. the cat trails me, knocking over mantle-piece-pieces. she paws at the frosted shower door, meowing for nothing. it angers me but i forgive pretty quickly. so much for personal qualities. she’s just lonely for that rough affection, now curtailed. i talk mainly into this void & i guess it’s ok.