Each day passes with a quiet tranquility, and I am content with it for the most part. I have not advertised my services yet. I am reluctant to be out of the house much, and even moreso to speak to strangers. There is something I do not trust, though whether it be myself or others (or both), I cannot say.
The pain, when it arises, is yet manageable with what I have in my stores.
I have taken to window-gazing, and I find some pleasure in watching the figures who wander up and down the street outside. I wonder what their names are, where they are going, what tales they might tell, and if they are happy. Now and then I find myself wistful with the desire to see a certain face or other, but these notions are nothing but bothersome and must be avoided.
Whoever lived here prior to my arrival had set up a feeder for the birds, and they arrive each morning with expectations of food. Their fleeting presence adds to my delight in sitting by the window, so I have set out some bread to stale and be crumbled up.
