I used to feel the wind.

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            "Amy, there's a guy standing in my yard.  He's been there for almost an hour."

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He glances over at his favorite acquaintance.

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            I pulled back the royal purple curtain and hesitantly glided into the makeshift room.  How could anyone live here? I thought.  Tapestries were strewn everywhere, falling over the walls and lying limply over furniture that had no place in this decade.  The clutter of decorations was suffocating.  Windows were unheard of, and I could not locate the source of the offensively dim light in order to properly criticize it.  I could barely see my own reflection through the hazy mirror that sat sulking in the corner.  The gypsy woman's image appeared vividly in the frame behind me; apparently the structure was loyal only to its owner. 

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