Some days no one else lives in the tower, while on yet other days it’s brimming over with parading cavalcades of visitors; inhabitants who would rather knock the walls searching for news than hear melodic and refrain the remnant of what’s gone; it confuses them and her– they know she likes to tell them stories– and some may wonder whether she ascribes the dead a passion better lent the living, conflating objects of desire with the gift of giving grief its second chance to spare her no quarter; rather pin me to the ground but while you’re gone I hear such resounding elegies of footsteps down the hall and voices could be anyone in another room when down the way outside early in the morning other lives will pass us as if our motion made alive the reason we decide to call one person our whole body, when clearly there is more than me inside.
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