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.