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  • The Paris Review

    Elly Bookman

    Dec 01, 2020 0 minutes

    NOCTURNE

    After I make my home darkI wander through the fewquiet rooms and letthe bright blinking eyesof the continuing electricitytake me in. The modem, foreverstreaming its signals in and backout again to the air of theliving room, flashes the language ofits six green indicatorsinto the dim, and I’m notuntouched. By the door,the alarm pad keeps its emeraldbeacon of earnest defenseburning on, and I’m notvulnerable. And I rememberevery thing is a thingsomeone made,that somewhere someone’s jobis to place tiny bulbsinside plastic bodies, thatsomeone else’s is to decidethat firefly color, to sitat a table shining under office lightand tell me what vividnessshould tell me I am keptsafe, I am kept connected, evenas loneliness hums its generatorlike a heart in a jar.

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