Silent Hour sits with a notebook on its lap or in front of a computer. Its pen is fine-tipped and black, its current notebook is also black and almost finished, and the computer is rather old.
Silent Hour is mostly night.
There is a window in Silent Hour’s room. A blue neon light appears from time to time across the street. It comes from a recording studio, whose owner seems to also prefer the night. Silent Hour misses the light when it’s not on.
Silent Hour is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. It reads, writes, watches.
It is thread wrapped around a spinning wheel.
It howls with the wolves with whom it wants to be.
Silent Hour is me.
I want to be everything when I grow up: a prima ballerina and a highwayman.
But then again all I want is to be free from any use that can be found for me.
It’s not only gardeners who get sidetracked.
Home is a shuttle through the warp, threading; the tap-tap-tapping of a fine-tuned loom.
Me, face in hands,
the spinning wheel
Home is a stream of light; through the glass door with the peeled white paint, a constant flow, wide; lazy goldflakes; caught in a sunbeam, home is motes of dust dancing slow.
My sister says this memory is hers.
We must have been standing side by side.
I didn’t tell you this, but someone makes paper boats and pins them on wire fences.
I am new here. My friends are dogs and redbud trees.
I follow the paper boats to find my way home. I still don’t know the streets very well.
Mumu is standing at the kitchen door: tall, black and faceless.
She lives in the living room, behind the sofas perhaps or under the table. The living room is locked, the shutters drawn. Once I went in, looking for her. She wasn’t there.
But she is here now, standing at the kitchen door. She needn’t say a word.
I eat my food.
These chisels, these splinters, the loose teeth in the mouth of the earth, I take in the mirror room and play with them. Sometimes I scare them a little.
Everything there has to be another Cask of Amontillado.
Look how neatly she folds her dress
how her spoons never leave her for someone else
how she locks every door behind her
the keys she leaves on a table
That’s Eleni. Not me.