Words come to me at twilight: I have bouts of thoughts where I imagine letting others in my cold, little room: to view the black paint splattered on the walls, the cracks on the floor, the trails that lead to raw, unfinished dreams. Other days - and more frequently - I’m like a board made of great, exemplary wood. I resist the outside. I do not know what I want, only what I need. And I need silence, forests of solitude, and souls that have substance and depth. Rare things. And to watch the birds that know of nests, at every sunset, so that maybe some remainder of feathers can find their way back to me.