The window glass bends toward me as the mice dance in the walls. It is 1, 10, 3, 9. But the light is flat blue and indecipherable. I exist without time. The weight of my notebook tells me I have been here for a while now; the number of stones on my window sill count the months. Home is breathing on my neck; a substance I have to follow across oceans. My boots wait patiently by the door.