I suppose it’s natural that in writing about loneliness I

should find myself a bit depressed.  Coming to this evening,

the day lost, I lay in bed as dusk saturated

the room, falling in and out of sleep.  Awakening in

the dark, there is always that moment when the room

is any room and no room at all.  Sometimes it’s

just a shiver, this feeling; and there are also times

when one must choose slowly what is what, picking substance

from shade, as if choosing one’s life anew. There are

those times when you begin to doubt your own mind.


Paraphrases from the novel Singer by Ira Sher.