Last night an old man in a striped suit and heavy felt trilby hat sat in front of me on the subway. “All of us,” he said loudly. “All of us,” more thoughtful. “All of us,” agitated now. It was then that I realized he wasn’t saying “all of us,” he was saying “walrus,” which he continued to say in various states of anger and disbelief until he got off one stop before I did. It’s been an odd year. I’ve moved to Los Angeles after over thirty years in the Bay Area. To say it’s been disorienting is to minimize things. I now work on a nearly empty floor in an office building downtown. I rarely speak or am spoken to, just drifting through my days. I’ve been reading classic literature on my computer whenever work slows down a bit, which is not too often. I’m reading Anna Karenina. It’s a strange, silent life. Right now, my partner is away on the east coast for a month and things have gotten even quieter. When I go home, I frisk with the cats, make my little dinner and settle in to read something. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s been feeling too much like limbo lately.