I don't expect to be heard here. 

I'm alone except for what surrounds me. Books. Solitude. Sometimes music. His music. Classical, which I'm learning to listen to, really listen to.

But when that's not playing I hear the scratching and moaning of an old building holding together. Ghostly whispers from the floors above me, and beneath me. Life. 
Sometimes I imagine what goes on above me. Beneath me. I wonder, 
do any of them wonder about what's going on in between? 

Day One

What day is it?

Another day inside. Another day to look out the windows at Central Park and wish I was out there with everyone else. Another day of longing.

Hours.

I sigh and wonder how many more days like this I can take?

Time doesn't move. I wish it would breathe. At least breathe so I knew it was alive.