I peek outside the window — the sun is clear, the clouds drift aside. I take the pen and start to write. Soon enough, a loud howl cuts through the air. A voice, weeping — as if strangled to death. Yet I continue to write. The clock hits five. I close the book, set the pen aside. Now the sun is setting. Strong winds break the weak leaves. People walk the street below — some in melancholy, some crumbling — but they exist. They all exist. Again, the howl. Again, I ignore it, keep looking outside. But this time… the howl came from me. And all this time, it was me — strangled to death. Just a few things make me feel alive. And you... you're one of them.