The street called out to me, a wordless plea for acknowledgment amongst the swirling plastic bags and cigarette butts that defined its landscape. Here was desolate, here was nowhere.

This was the burnt out end of the universe that meant nothing to anyone – even those who lived here. The traffic cones that littered the road meant nothing, a feeble attempt to repudiate obscurity. No traffic would ever need directing here.

The light was fading, matched only by my belief that meaning could be found in the apartment my grandfather called home. The contrast between here and the city was stark, the hustle and bustle of high pitched motorcycles seating far more than they ought to replaced with burnt-out whispers of meaning and something more.

My expression was determined, my face shadowed. There were no building numbers, but I doubted the apartment had changed in the 30 years since the picture had been had been taken. I smiled. Even then it looked ramshackle, a remnant from the past.