Subtle like the static of a wax spinning on a megaphone, i scuttle sideways in the dusty attic of a neglected home. The tone on the telephone has been silent for decades, rotting vegetation in the concave of the gutters. Busted shutters and a creaky balconies tell stories that only the glass stain windows remember. Perhaps it was last December when my letter was returned to sender. She left a pink cigarette half smoked on the coffee table stained with shiraz. Flaky paint faded by a thousands of twilight hours, shady alleyways, broken faucets and cracked tiling in showers stained with the residues of soap scum, cracker crumbs scattered on dirty bedsheets, floors creak, and only the windows speak hissing winds. Frail limbs of a rocking chair, facilitate a djins stare that projects onto the dusty road where she awaits her lover to return from that war that ended a hundred years ago.