But a few days into its waning, the moon casts gentle light. It is low in the southern sky now, and the soft shadows it casts are long, like those of the winter sun. All but one cricket ceased chirping early. The one provided me with my only company through the small hours. Not so much as a breeze intruded upon the feeling of solitude I felt. The cats remained asleep. I left the computer off most of the night so as not to disturb the sick one. The astonishing depth of the quiet led my thoughts to old things, to lonely hours and empty streets and silent rooms long vanished. I committed none of it to paper. There is already too much of such, gathering dust in drawers and boxes unopened for years. This does not feel like a time for gathering the past, but only for wandering in it, aimlessly, with no firm intent. This is a time for biding, and listening to the silence for that small voice which will announce that everything has changed yet again.