When I was young I searched for desolation.  Old burnt out cars rusted and brown by long ignored desire lines.  They sparked in me a curiosity that bugged me until I grew older.  Then my curiosity was satiated to the point of sorrow.  Now it no longer matters I'm merely a passenger on a train that never stops moving even into eternity.  I stand up for a moment and look down and see her walking across the room.  Her face seems worn and haggard as if she is pursued by some nameless and irrevocable force.  She is a mirror before me, and I have been long in the cellar of solitude.  So I call out in the dark and she lifts her head.  I ask her how she is, she looks at me strangely as if wondering how so ragged a man could have such a lucid voice and countenance.  She tells me that she's alone in this quiet place.  I can feel her isolation just like mine.  I talk to her of a few basic things.  We talk about the fact that 4'33 is playing on the radio station, and how we ourselves are a part of the music.  We both laughs at such an absurd composition  Out words cross each other and seem to reach past our walls.  She walks away, but I know now that I'm not quite alone.  We have shared our voices in the dark perhaps to shed a little light.  so much lies below that we are yet strangers  But I know her name and she knows mine.  She is Emma Gerber, and I am Pestilent Mann.