The Mourning And the Deafening Silence
I used to crave the quiet.
I would dream and wish for a moment all to myself in peaceful tranquility. No noise. No people.
Now the quiet is my torment.
I wish you were here
He’s knocking again. Ten o’clock, eleven, one in the morning, two, three, four. He knocks at all hours randomly, waking me from my sleep. I thought I was dreaming at first.