There’s a small pile of dead flies on my front windowsill. I’ve cleared it off three times now but they keep coming back. Mites by the window above the sink.

I’m standing at the stove, a kettle waiting. I was going to make a mug of tea, but got distracted, turning the dial back and forth, the sparks clicking, clicking, clicking, clicking. The smell of gas rises.

I’ve been out of internet connection for nearly a week now. The blog left dry on an old post, a thought hanging, an idea left, lost. Over too quickly, forgotten, hanging, spent. Can’t end like that. It’d be like real life.

A cliffhanger ending, a question posed. Subjective reality, interest lost, moved home and left the blog. How would you imagine it went?

Reality, my perception, what I share, what you read, how you read it.

If I stopped writing, will anything change?

Stand by the window, listen for the kettle to scream. Watch for faces watching back. The glass frosts, mirrors back.

Backward letters, a voice from the gloom.

You stand in an iron room and you scream. No sound. When you stop expecting to be heard, you’re screaming for yourself. Anything beyond that is only fear.

Nothing to lose. As good as dead. A locked box. Come to grips with mortality. Flip the switch, look the monster in his eye.

Are you afraid for me? Turn the gas on and wait with a match.

I can tell you anything. I can build pyramids in the Rockies. I can ignite the evening. I was on the knoll, at the Golgotha, outside your window. I can bring my parents back to life.

All you know is a truth on your side of the frosted glass,

and that I’m still here to write in it.