Nicole Kidman stars in: 'The Astronaut Dropped'

I can still recall the cold of that night as I slept fitfully in my car. There was a frozenness inside and most definitely across and inside of my skin. I guess these two frozennesses touched, the inner and outer, across some divide - some sinewy divide like an ice bridge, if I can call it that, connecting those two different frozennesses that all our lives are capable of.

My first  sense of oneness in ever so long and it had to be the oneness of different frozennesses! Such hardness, oh calloused little life, such cold brutalness!

Is this a true memory, the one I seem to have of the twitching curtain? I seem to recall glancing out of the car, perhaps trying to discern how far I was into the night and how far from morning, and seeing a curtain in the house I was parked outside of twitching.

Light. Thin envelope of yellow and white and orange energy. So far over there, but scorching my eyelids with promise. Not that the light melted anything across me or inside me. It just seemed to peer through the window of my car,  contemplate the chill within and then the curtain closed over again. The merest blink of an electrical eye.

That's what I seem to remember. But did that actually happen? Or did I just long for it? And did it happen twice? Once with a downstairs window and once again with an upstairs window?

Oh, the ambiguity of a twitching curtain! A glimpse of light that gives nothing that is needed or necessary.

And, of course, I’ve spent a couple more nights asleep in my car outside of that  house since that time. That was just me being silly though. Being in the house and thinking that I'd heard something. Spooking myself unecessarily and then finding myself in my car and tearing away from Mordan House as if banshees were on my tail!

Did the curtains twitch on those occasions too? I remember wondering this on several occasions.

In time I would have the answer.