Beyond the large window, the forest, the sky, and everything in-between, there was of course that solitary and disturbed silence which falls so often upon us all, and the feeling, the sight, and the smell of spring leaves.

It is this in-between in which the life of a person might be best described, and of which the lives of others were only meant to serve as a symbol, a parable, a story, a mockery, or a farce adapted by the other.

The life of a person who had nothing apart from this, who spent their days dreaming of nothing, dreaming of nothing more than to be a faceless thing, to be a thing indifferent to the things around them, to the little noises they would make to themself, to the little details they would leave to others, the little gestures they would make to show others they loved them.

All those long years spent sitting in silence, feeling the tiny little touches of their hand on their own body, of their fingertips on their own skin, of their long, thin lips in an un-uttered voice.