There is a void, because of a presence, because of this sentence. My memories have made this void defined, clear on the walls surrounding me as I smile, looking through my past like a kaleidascope, glittering into my eye. My slippers swish across the clean wooden floor and my room looks like my image - in sections and colorful - and I proceed on to the window to feel the light of day and disappearances of those walking away. My reflection makes me wonder if I can be seen, if anyone's bothering to look up at the stranger with a trombone in his hands and a bare chest. There was one time when this woman looked up at me, stared directly into my eyes, scared, though wanting... and I felt I needed to look away - as if I had seen something I should not have... this movement of the void...