late in the solid hours of day silence enters the room stretching its arm stepping over the worn garment of which has been hastily folded and placed on the floor and out of sight of caution during the social minutes of illusion the wrap slips too comfortably over reality silence steps over the tidy but imperfect pile of untruth and then leans precisely without resistance and softly whispers into the ear "i am interested in the contents of your soul"