My windows are covered. I can’t see what’s behind them. I imagine a beach and the sea, or tall mountains, or a center of a big city, or that I live on a space station and behind my windows is the empty, black void — only I’ve drawn the curtains.

Sometimes I try to imagine what’s actually behind the windows. It turns out to be much harder. I can’t grasp the reality outside. So I doubt it. More and more.

Other times I try to imagine what my windows look like from the outside. No one can see what’s happening in here. This gives me a satisfaction and pleasure so intense that I feel ashamed — and tend to avoid it.

I don’t let anyone in.