Voices heard on good days are outside my window. One is my next door neighbour’s. Yesterday the man was as good as dead; barely breathing from illness and misery and loneliness. Now, he’s laughing even—can you believe it? And the woman laughing with him too at times, un-withered and dame-like.

It’s too unbelievable.

He must be drunk. She must be too. I’ve never heard them talk even. Never a word. Christ, let me check outside — it might just be me.

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