Somehow recently I have both read a few stories and been told a few anecdotes that all relate to remote jungle villages in wartime. The burden of each of these stories is that conflict forces people out of their little towns, leaving empty buildings and civilized husks, until the war builds to a point where those villages are reoccupied by refugees from somewhere else.
And I think there's a point, is all, in the fact that no place is ever empty for long.
My nights are still, as Neruda says, "peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices," each whorl of my fingerprints set of fire by something just on the edge of noticing. Earlier I started to drop asleep on the couch, book drooping in my hands, only to be yanked back by what I was certain was a whisper in my ear.
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