I would begin on a diatribe of my current living conditions, but I have begun a tale and it would be unwise to end it. However, I will note that I'll be on the move again, for reasons quite beyond my control (namely, this house's tenants will be returning and I have to be gone before then). I should have a little something for you all soon, though.
In any case, the figure returned to the window on the night after. The child - but perhaps "child" is not the right word, but it is fitting. I cannot recall the age of the child, however , but these are among my earliest memories - stared until it left once again. And then, on the second day after it's first appearance, the child opened the window. Just a fraction, just enough to let sound in.
And, that night, the figure returned again. Perhaps it noticed the window, before it laughed again. Deep, with wind crashing through every syllable. As if a great effort was being undergone to do this thing. And then it opened the window further. That is my last memory of that night. Yet more evidence for the unworthiness of my mind - what mattered most was remembered the least.
In the morning, I awoke in my bed. There was something strange about my arms (look away), but I could do nothing for it. The thoughts have been forgotten, but my intent was clear - I could not stay in my house for any longer. As I went down the stairs, I saw my mother; her shadow seemed to flicker (shift) and my intent was bolstered by resolve.
And so, I set myself on a path that led to my future. I shall call an end to this telling, for there is nothing meaningful to tell here. Are there other stories, other tales...? Perhaps.
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