no, that’s unfair. the house is as idyllic as it ever was. inside it, i’m the one who’s changed. the gilt’s been rubbed off of the concept of solitude that shone so gloriously in the shade of familial discord— now that i’ve been reminded of companionship’s joyous chatter, of my own laughter’s heinous volume, of the utter rightness that settles into the air around two individuals who truly understand one another and stick around regardless—which is what friendship should always aim to create, if you ask me. how gloriously full this airy house feels when story after story is let loose as weeks apart are divulged with precious few details omitted, until yawns outnumber pronouns and questions need repeating a few times before an answer struggles forth. daphne’s back in the city, and the next two nights will drag along, ponderous, impregnated with silence. of course i’ll make my own music, but now is one of those rare instances in which that won’t be enough, i’m afraid.
from these ten days i’ll take the sensation of honest serenity. true peace. i so often forget what that tastes like. the fantastic actually outnumbers both the mundane and the morose. I’m just not a solitary species.