What is this world but the six yards before me-and the nothing beyond. This patch of land at my feet, dry as ice. Beyond the perimeter wall the sound of a lone rickshaw, out there in the sea with its single soft white light. The light so dim now that it's almost grey. The traffic lights flickering senselessly, saying to itself, "no one obeys". 

Inside, inside the calls of crows in the windowless branches and the sound of the leaves being swept by the other ghosts, as if they were making grand preparations for the arrival of a special guest.