The distant reverberations of an opera singer in Grand Central Station. One comes from a play at one’s Alma Mater. Disturbed by the severed head of a Scottish Thane, to say nothing of MacDuff’s loss. The walking wood. I wish they would. One goes home, or to a semblance of it. An apartment nonetheless. Maybe to water the plants, make a salad. Read and dream. Write, because when one can, one must.