In the city of lost children the streets are cluttered with the vaguely-wandering and the stunned-still rooted like stunted trees or trees malformed around some terrible blockage. Across the rooftops carried by storms the cries of children break and fall; the walls show pale shapes, shadows grotesquely thin and over-tall and music cannot lift its soul to be heard at all. In roadside stalls hawkers peddle useless wares like silk ties and powdered rhino horn and shoe lasts to prop open doors in homes these homeless cannot enter any more. There’s no currency, no law, and time is hanging in the clouds too afraid to come down and restore a narrative of sorts: some sense like this was meant to be, or it started here or there and progressed and this is where it ends and why it came to be. No, the children wander murmuring or murmur stock still that there was a thread they pulled and lost and buttons fell not even catching light or sound as they hit the ground.