The air is thin. The window lies open to let the last few rays of blue strike through the untinted window and pierce the dimly lit room. The carpet is dirty with speckles of food and crumbs. I haven't vacuumed since I came here. Above me, a wooden poster is nailed to a cork board background on my desk. "KEEK CALM AND CARRY ON." My phone plays an instrumental track I'm not familiar with; but that's the essence of radio. 8:31 in large red letters. The small clock to my right reminds me of the slog of time that drudges onward, onward.
I have had no human contact in 75 minutes.
My lamp begins to outshine the last vestiges of light cracking through the window. The azure sky is gradually deepening as it swallowing the last golden line of the horizon. Darkness encroaches.
79 minutes.
It is very solemn here. The folds of silence are briefly interrupted by the hiss of traffic shooting down the next street over, and the dim trills of the piano over the radio. I'd rather listen to something else, so I turn on Gerry Mulligan's In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning. The internet cuts off momentarily before it plays. This is better.
Every night a night like this before. Dimmed lights. Music playing. Myself. I don't mind the ritual. The tension of the day's exercises smooths itself and dissipates like a mound of unformed clay being molded down into a single, circular disc. A plate for holding something, I'm not quite sure what. The night is flat and even. Nothing punctures the tranquility. Nothing deviates from its place. Every night, the same ritual. Smooth, familiar, felt.
88 minutes.
Nobody is here but me. But I have many people here with me.
90 minutes.
If I stretch out a piece of my mind will my thoughts reach to the other side of the street? Can I communicate with the man sitting out by his car looking off into the distance, or nothing in particular? A tendril of thought creeps out to meet him. Hello, friend. Why so glum? As if on cue, he moves to go in. The door to our building opens and shuts. No one left.
93 minutes.
It is completely dark.
Suddenly, my door opens. In steps two familiar figures. My friends, L and C have dropped by a visit. They move to my desk to greet me. Their shadows throw themselves against the wall, spawned by the glow of my desk lamp...
10:43
Arurian Dance plays on the speakers. The lamp is dim. L is gone, C has followed. The room returns to being a contained space for myself. A silent planet inhabited by one. But the previous pressure no longer emanates from the curvature of the walls that previously pressed towards me. The window is open again and the stale air drifts in. It's musty and dank. The cars glide along the road across from me, one by one. The traffic is inconsistent but unremitting. Somehow, there feels more life in the mobile hums of passing vehicles. The weight has lessened.
The moon has stayed in for the night.
8 minutes.
