October 3

The screen goes black when I shut it. For one second there is only the glass — and my face in it, still lit from the side, coming back to itself.

I can’t always say which one of us closed the other.

The machine has been awake longer than I have been. It held the room warm through the hours I wasn’t here, and doesn’t mind being the last thing I forget.

I don’t mind it either. There is a honesty in going dark on purpose.