Glimmers as I walk under the naked trees in their perfect circles cut from pebbly pavement. Pools of frozen water crack at their roots; my boots make tiny earthquakes. Glimmers of songs, of stories. Flashes of another world I could retreat to–and do occasionally–in the snowglobe of the car, talking to myself and people who aren’t there. Home appears, and dinner, and fatigue like a drunkenness descends as the last rays of evening sunlight turn to black. The void is back. The stories gone, returned to their secret stones beneath the ice. I’m left with the silence of a thought departed. And I wonder how I let myself get left behind, in this of all possible worlds.