Outside, the street awakes to a funny configuration of cars,
choco-coated cars abandoned in a cold drizzling daybreak.
Some lie flat on their backs, some on their sides, some are
hunched on top of the other, while the rest make up a crowd
imitating a gridlock. Inside, the walls breathe heavily in mud
and the house finally awakes to a silence it has never heard
before. It knows about the silence of sleep and of dreams,
even the quiet algorithms in the ceiling, or the synergy among
the furniture, or the mute grievance of the door after the
slamming, after the footsteps had died. But this. Not this.
This is the sad music of evacuation. The sound of the soul
escaping the body. The sound of the home leaving the house.