I sit on the other side of the glass, peering out. 

An observer of other people's worlds, other people's lives.

I've seen that man's face before. 

I've seen her umbrella.

I've heard their voices in the street.

But now it's silent.

If I put my hand up against the pane, it's cold.

I feel isolated from the world I knew.

And I wonder if I continue to exist in it.

A name or word.

A story.

A joke.

A sound.

A feeling.

A scent.

A memory.

One is alone, a total stranger and only an object of curiosity. And so long as you say “one” instead of “I,” there’s nothing in it and one can easily tell the story; but as soon as you admit to yourself that it is you yourself, you feel as though transfixed and are horrified.