He opens the door and talks with a social self.

Or: she walks through the streets entirely sunken into herself, a reality I don’t know. Cap to the face, arms flanked to walls around herself. And then I speak to her, it breaks, and a real voice speaks to me.

I continue to be afraid to show my stuff. The loneliness continues to result from my heritage of non-speech; and from any other heritage that people brought to me.