The scenes across the street are constantly in flux. It is always too late to avert the gaze. The recluse, the exhibitionists, the bohedonists, the yelping dogs and bemused cats. The regimes of domesticity that appear familiar, yet far removed. But throughout the years, and the sickness, and the absences, you have remained. When I began to doubt my stability, I turned my head and there they were. The signs of continuity. And they reassured me. Someday I'm going to turn my head, and the owl will have ceased its vigil. And then I will know.
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