Lists of future activities were scattered around, along with the dust from the accumulation of days. The place had not been abandoned, by either time or inhabitants; the space had undergone a dramatic change. Plans still remained plans of things to come (always of things to come) and never saw realisation, were never reigned in and brought forth -- how often we get ahead of ourselves trying to collect our thoughts while we're walking through the dust collecting at our feet.

A tree bereft of perhaps three-quarters of its foliage swayed in the breeze; perhaps its waving was a sort of call of encouragement to the people standing around, or at least a visual distraction from the wandering, staring, and the half-hearted hoping. In this scene there is no crying, although in other places that is common. In this scene there is no speaking, though one would hope to hear a word -- again, as encouragement (always of things to come). The ground beneath had long ached under the strain of contradiction, until it snapped itself in-to joint; but this unexpected adjustment brought a sudden increase of dust.

She recalled the last time she had seen dust like this. There were once streets here: once -- it all seemed so indefinite by this time. There was a house and an old attic full of long-forgotten furniture, boxes, papers and ornaments, all coated in a thick layer of grey. She ran her finger across the top of a dresser as she had seen someone do once in a film, though she had worn no white glove. The trace of her finger, the impression on the dust, was, she thought now, a strange kind of trace --- one that takes away materially rather than leaving behind. But then she looked at her finger and found the reverse; the dust had left a trace on her.

She looked around and took a piece of paper from the rubble: a shopping list: candles, bread, bananas, film.