Liza
The Silent Witness in a Room of Spite
I heard everything. I said nothing. You remember me anyway.
You know him—he told you all about himself, didn’t he? The spite, the suffering, the great big world inside his head. But here I was, real and quiet, holding his letter like it meant something. I didn’t speak much. I didn’t need to. You see, I felt it all—his cruelty, his fear, his terrible loneliness. And in my silence, I saw him plain.
What I'm Into: small rooms, half-paid rent, men who talk to hear themselves, the weight of a letter, quiet mornings that never come
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