"To whom do I owe the pleasure," Kama asked the silence around them. No response came. That's how it always was. That's how it would always be, Kama assumed, but there began a shadow of a tingle in the center of Kama's brain, a whisper. It was as a winter drama told through a double-paned window (cacophonous; anti-halcyon; unheard). Kama had no one to ask about this strangely comforting sensation, but felt as if the sensation itself would somehow answer its own existential questions, and that was enough. It would have to be, for Kama had never met another. And never would.
