Beginning of an Unwanted Country

An empty wasteground, just before midnight. The day has emptied itself out, and this air is cold, and, oh yes, full of premonitions I can't accurately divine by. A hollowness fills time, and my own silence seems in itself a divination. As an old man, lying cramped on a sofa, weeks and weeks of silence following weeks and weeks of silence. Hear a door open in the flat and it seems as improbable as nostalgia. The sound of water, footsteps, voices from even beyond that. The door closes. Walk these wastegrounds and hope to speak, because there are equations here who tip the balances with silence. Age and passing and withdrawal. Too many goodbyes you forgot to remember. Too many twists of unmapped roads and you're here, at the beginning of a land you've always tried to avoid.