There was one dirty window in my bedroom and i so i never looked outside at night. until one time i awoke to the scraping sound of some soggy hand scraping at the film over the glass. and i finally looked out to see that there was a garage three feet from the side of the house, not much to look at but something new nonetheless. and i began to study its side... my friend had slid by and away and i never found out her name. but the garage remained the same. another rooftop, another window, another door. i might have waited too long for too little, i decided, or maybe now it was time to wait. for the elements to pound at the sides of my house and the sides of that garage to determine which was strongest. but after a few hours, having memorized each crack and lump of chipping paint on my newly discovered neighbor, sleep fell upon me. and i dreamed that night of a birdhouse, high above the forest floor, some deranged mother knocking all her eggs out on purpose. so that when i woke up for a moment i slid my hands over the sheets to sweep off bits of broken shell.