He held there was no difference between life and death. "Why then," said one, "do you not die?" "Because," said he, "there is no difference."

—  Diogenes Laertius, Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers

There are rooms in the houses of our minds built up on borrowed life and memory cemented in time. We have boarded up these rooms as best as we can, shabbily, first with one lie like hollow wood, and then with a second in a curved nail, blow after blow, until the sound of the boarding too is sealed off and what lies within is immersed in darkness.

You prop up a new piece of furniture there, then you set the table, hang up a frame, plug in appliances, the hum of power like the hum of life. You believe the house is yours and you move to and fro. A new lamp, a red curtain, a stack of books, a wastebasket: these before the door. Tomorrow will come quietly if you want it too.

You talk to Jerry in E7 while you wash the laundry. A tailor named Aroush will do a top-stitch. By signing below you acknowledge you have authorized your employer to withhold the amount specified in Section 2 from your wages.  You appeal the surcharge, you see a movie Downtown, you smile, then you return home, though you emptied the whole bag, all your personal effects, the parting gifts, the handful of nails, the silhouette of a dress, a thousand pounds of black hair, a wave of flesh, dark eyes.

You breathe in and slide your back against the door, and open your eyes.

The room is getting dark, the days long.