There are no more streets, no more avenues and, if you can find you way amid the fallen tree, lanes. Flattened cars, the painting on the buildings has disappeared to the inside, the memorial sculptures still standing over the city of nothing. What stuns you most is the immobility of silence, how each thing seems suspended in nothing, each thing a silent witness to its extinction – you woke up and found yourself in a grayscale photograph. Each object is possessed of doubt and the immeasurable echo of its existence. Time was when we still wanted to be dancers, flamingo feathers, black suits, gong and sukuti in the backyard, paper plates for hats, fish scales for scarves, in the endless morning of cow dung smoke and ash. There are no more streets, no more avenues, all roads lead to walls. If the sky was not purple we’d imagine this city is a tunnel, the people elaborate sculptures frozen under traffic lights. And where do the roads lead? To another city like this one.