Saturday, 13°C, windless. The rotary phone on the floor does not ring. The dentist's chair does not recline. The calendar pinned to the sky does not turn its page. I am the held breath between two weeks— the one that asked too much and the one still deciding. There is a frequency below which sound becomes just pressure on the chest. That is where I live tonight. The stars are making lists I cannot read. The floorboards dissolve if I look too long. Nothing happened. Nothing needed to. The body knew before the mind: this emptiness is not empty. It is full of having stopped.