It is not the faceless quiet of mornings, nor the phone’s unbroken hush, but the ache of a life unwoven— a house where my breath rattles like loose panes, and shadows coil like serpents in corners. Each day dons the same threadbare coat, gray as ash, heavy as the sky before a storm. The mirrors are dark pools, reflecting nothing but the echo of a soul alone. Coffee steams, tasting of distant moons, cold, hollow, untasted. Each night the keys fall on the table— a bell tolling across empty planets. The bed swallows me like a star collapsing, my hands clawing at sheets cold as stone, my voice a comet’s tail fading into void. People flare like meteors in a gale— a borrowed laugh, a fleeting glance— but they burn out, leaving only cosmic smoke, the vacuum of air heavy with absence. Loneliness does not cut deepest. It is memory’s supernova: the brush of a hand, warm as summer dusk, the wordless ease of a shared pulse, now vanished into the black of space. Gone, a light snuffed ou...