What was I thinking?  Well, maybe I wasn’t, again.

There isn’t much to see – desk with maps, empty bed, clothes thrown about – such richness so easily discarded.  Not much left of such a great life, the life given for me, taken for mine.

Nothing’s changed; I imagine he left orders.  It’s been cleaned, alright, but not touched (I touch everything).  What did he leave?  Nothing he thought he couldn’t take with him.

I shouldn’t be here, and for once in my life I want someone to come and yell at me.  “Get out!  Fool …”

But no one comes.