you hear distant conversations coming from another room; fragments of words that do not echo on walls but are absorbed deep into the recesses instead. you can’t tell what is being said. through notes and inflections you know these are not conversations with people you know, but between strangers who, for a moment, have taken refuge in your living room. every morning the voices rise and fall, but you pay no heed. your ear shifts in vague acknowledgment then seeks out another silence. you know you won’t have much time to finish writing this letter before the credits start rolling.