There is no one in my house tonight. There has been no one here for months. A couple of weeks ago a sweet woman brought me a frying pan. Said I should stop living like a hermit bachelor. I took a picture of myself holding the frying pan. I thought I might print it out and hang it on the stove. I don’t know why. This house is so quiet, my heartbeat is a pin dropping. You can hear it in every room. I collect umbrellas. I collect records. I’ve never owned a record player, or a rainstorm. I have three seashells. They understand. The stereo aches, so clear. Why is there a chalkboard on the bedroom wall? Why the word “strawberry” everywhere? Why the empty birdcage in the living room? And a banjo I can’t play? And a plant with a secret name? Who knows. But the cupboards, in the cupboards there are cups and glasses, cups and glasses, cups and glasses. Each night I take them out. I line them up on the floor. One by one I press them to the walls. I listen for the Lonely. Dear Lonely, you are why I am still here. Because you listen back. This is true: There isn’t a single voice box in heaven. There are only ears.