Desmond and Other-Him.

It is the bustle removed from the room. The TV droning no more. The sink always unfilled, uncluttered. The water boiled a day ago still sitting unfinished in the jug. The claustrophobia breathing down on you expelled. Make space for Space.

You are silent for the most of the day, because being alone dismisses the need to talk. Until you realise you should talk, even if out loud to other-You. So you begin a necessary self-monologue, the starting of which startles you -- "has my voice always been so low and muffled?"

Therein lies the necessity of talking: because I need me to sound like me. I need my voice opened, not closed. Posture straight, chest out, deep breaths. Chest out (again). Resonating the things already known to myself out of my head, through my head. Am I more supported now? Maybe.

Maybe support is not as pressing as the need to remember voices. To clear your head. So we talk, of bustling rooms and jugs half-full. Of blackened TVs and empty sinks. And of Claustrophobia as a man. We talk to empty our heads.

Or maybe, we talk to our empty heads.
Shush, other-Me.