It really is quiet here.  I told you that I can hear myself swallow.  Now my thoughts are sticking to the roof of my mouth. It has happened before, so it doesn't scare me.  For 16 years I lived alone on the shore of a lake in Muskoka, and it was quiet there, too, except in the summer when the power boats turned the lake into Yonge Street and in the winter when the snowmobiles had drag races. November was quiet, though, before the ice was thick enough.  And very few people get up as early as I do, so it's quiet in the morning, like now.  One of the flies has survived, bit sluggish, but hanging in there, literally, on the ceiling,  I think it's afraid of the lamp - too hot.  Smart fly.  Yes, I know I'm babbling.  Also talking to myself. Out loud. Not too loud.  I can hear myself think. Which a lot of people can't.  It's not their hearing, it's their thinking that they're hard of.  Ignore that. That wasn't kind.  Hey, I'm not complaining.  I like it, and it's not as if I'm not used to the hazards of living alone.  You know what that means: be careful on the stairs, if any; remember to turn everything off; don't run out of anything you need and if you do, improvise. And if you find yourself talking to yourself, well, as they say, at least you've found someone intelligent.