I sometimes lay here in the quiet, listening to the sounds of silence. It’s amazing what one can hear when there is nothing to be heard. No thoughts in your head, no crickets humming, noisy neighbors and no obscenely loud mufflers outside on the street. Nothing but the simple sounds of breathing. As I lay here quietly, I watch while Brad’s chest moves up and down next to me, I am content. Odd shaped shadows from the streetlight outside leave blackened marks on the walls from covered up stains that the 2 year old artist who lived here prior left. I give them names, peculiar names; no one would ever give to a child let alone a Barbie doll. Like Eleanor, Larry, Fletcher or even Stanley. The types of names that make you cringe when you hear them. Those types of names you never hear anymore, unless you are reading the obituaries.