I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t hear myself in my head anymore. I was hearing someone else. This someone else was older, much older than me, and tired. Her words dragged, as if part of a funeral procession. Her voice didn’t seem that interested in putting words together, forming sentences. It was a voice that seemed much closer to silence than the previous voice, the one I knew, the one which had been me, or mine. Where had that voice gone? I felt, in listening to whatever was going on in my head, in what was being said, that I was eavesdropping. To become intimately familiar with a voice in the dark, only to have it suddenly displaced by other voices in the dark, was extremely unnerving. It’s hard enough to be in the dark inside oneself, but to be in the dark inside oneself with a stranger … unsettling. I can tell you about this, in my own words, trusting that what I’m saying is what I am saying, only when writing the words down or speaking them aloud. When I am quiet, and listening inside myself, it is the other voice’s thoughts and ideas and narrative—not me, not I, it is they, her, the other, old and tired, who seems to be in perpetual mourning for person or persons unknown.