I want to be made felt better.

I enjoy the company of strangers--we always find each other whenever in need, you always accept my brutal silences that neither ask nor care. I have recorded the twist of your eyes particularly, and how they say that something that strangers always say. There is lonesome in your glass.
Of course I've felt the drafty rooms where strangers try not to meet, something always moving in, something always on the way out, sliding out. Nothing truly belongs, strangers in coats but no forms, but it is so silent and dead and perfectly empty: warm, tumbling and happy.