It’s been eighteen, nineteen years. I triangulate my way around unnamed streets and pass by the noodle shop, a police box, a blue bottle. A music box recording of “My Favorite Things” is directing me to avoid some tracks. My place is on the 3rd floor. All of the neighbors are silent, just like always. I nose my way in through the window, careful not to disturb. A cast-off coat, a pillow, an awl, no sweets for me. The kitchen window has been bricked up, so you may not notice my thoughts getting darker and darker. I go all the way in and through. Out on the balcony I lower myself gingerly into the smallest of flowerpots. I can hear the warning, the cadence of cracking sticks.