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.