There is a balcony, and there is a ladder. I see, as though present. And a man climbs up the wooden steps, he looks down, but things are tiny, things are mute. Up he goes, his feet are bruised, burning. He sits on the floor, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing around him, and above. He cranes and looks down again. There they are, those tiny things, those tiny mute things, those tiny insignificant things, those tiny wisps, those tiny tiny things, the only things present.

Silence, for a long time. And then those tiny mute things . . . echo, wail, screech. They never leave. They will seep through holes in your patched up sweater. This is up, and they are below, they are gone, but there are more here, than they are below.