In my space, it is quiet. Everything around me stands still. My presence contaminates the space. I used to wait for you to appear in your window, but now I look through my own window. I look at myself, observing myself, observing my trace on the couch, in the bed. What remains when I am not there? Where does the light touch when my body does not obstruct its rays? Is the space still mine when I am not in it? Does the fabric of the couch still feel my body? Does the bed remember the feeling of my legs? I watch myself, I become complicit in an act of self-gazing. I am not me, I am merely a spectator of myself. But, when I get too close to myself, I’ll turn back to watching you.