The music is roaring and sinking, distantly back and down into reverb, and the new golden sunlight silently warms out of love, out of yearning, an undeserving, uninterested urban hollow. This warmth seems empty too. I'm aching and glowing, wondering where everyone's gone. Silent dust on the window haloes in purple-white the silhouette of a deserted bell tower, modulating the slow sunlight as it surges into the echoing, empty attic room. The glow near the windows is suddenly brittle, granular, alien. I can sense a quiet echo in this light of its birth in shrieking electron storms at unending distances. Outside, grey floors are boiling into silver and gold mirrors. But inside, I am coming down into serenity, and I am alone. Eventually stillness always settles.

The geometry of the passions is silent.

I know I'm never going to reach you.