2001

In a room, alone with slamming doors. With the mad clearing, the piles of things not wanted, of things to be cleared, of junk the she doesn’t want to see. All the others have gone the way of the rats, jumped ship long ago… now only my ears can hear the thuds of rage and the obsessive shifting of furniture. What is it? Shall I look under the bed? On the red table? Where have you put it in your whirl wind of all possessions constantly moving? Will I be here for you if you go looking for me? Will I be in this green room and will I hide from me in the piles of ‘do you want this? Can I get rid of it?"