I don’t know how to act in solitude and silence anymore. I have been conditioned for the crowd and electric mania. Literally, I can hear the scratch like sound of the pen tip on the paper—the strange sounds my stomach is making—distant digital noises from my abdomen. I don’t know what to do with so much tranquility. There is a gentle clicking noise coming from inside my head, like crickets on a soft July night, or the unlocking of the door when at last she makes it home. I want to eat this feeling on hot buttered toast with raspberry jam.