The string holding the curtains together has no sense of the tautness it once knew.
It's frayed and rather slack now. The neighborhood children like to peep in.
There's nothing a much interest in here, but still they linger. I think they see the gray clinging to everything and wonder where it came from.

Yet, it's in uncertainty that I see their faces form the surest of creases. They know what they saw.

An electric current runs through this building and arches its spine. The air it breathes shimmers and it's mouth rips apart to utter what it has seen.

When they grow to meet my age and shake its hand, they'll remember.

But not now. No. Now they will wake amidst clean cotton and shake the sleep from their heads. They will rise when they day bids they do so, and they will go, and they will-