There’s nothing in my closet.
Nothing under the bed.
Nothing outside my window.
In fact, there is no window.
Everything outside of my most immediate frame of reference, that which extends beyond the nearest reach of my senses, has at some point vanished, and all that’s left is me, in my bed, covers pulled over my head.
On the other side of this quilt gapes empty void.
And when I close my eyes, I have no doubt the quilt will vanish too.
All my life I was afraid of what might be out there.
Now: There is nothing.