Above my apartment, an invisible pipe drips somewhere beyond the ceiling. I live alone in a stretch of barren hills. Far away, there is a little inn that never closes, where an old man murmurs stories from a time no one can hear.

My loneliness makes no sound. The dripping overhead, however, comes and goes, pulling my thoughts apart. I begin to imagine it as water falling from the soaked feathers of an eagle. Soon it will cry out, fold its wings, and plunge toward me—offering me, just before it kills me, the companionship of my final moments.

I am exhausted, yet unable to sleep, counting the seconds as they dissolve into the silence.