We were in the room next door, the one that, when you enter, you suddenly find yourself below ground, looking at the feet of passers-by on the street but you don't worry about that, about how you have found yourself here. You don't think about how it doesn't make sense because it does at the time. In that moment its dark energy rings truer than the dark. It's dark and dingy like you imagine a bar in a building’s basement should be. It has been abandoned, raided and forgotten with still uneasily spoken spirits that might be raised. Eighty years ago a thick layer of light brown dust settled, coating everything, taking the room and everything in it and turning them in tones of sepia with the sounds of the street coming filtered through dirty glass disturbing nothing. There is music that comes and goes, music that no one is listening to anymore, faded laughter like lost loves and stale cigarettes, like slowly yellowing paper (we can see it turn before us, we watch it happen there on the window sill, the paper curls and crumbles). Shadows pass and the passers feet become the passing of the light. From the room, a quick, lonely movement catches in the corner of the eye like a cobweb that you can not squeeze out. The room can not decide which floor it wants to be so it becomes the floor, and you are flattened along with it. You have become a shadow of who you are, your own shadow that you step on. This is a time when I was alone. This is a place I have been before. This is a time when I was not afraid of any thing or any one but of time's not passing, of dead flies that have stopped accumulating in the windows.