Myrto sits on Moura’s motorcycle and listens a long time to the clamour of birds, vendors, traffic, yapping street dogs, feeling calm as she looks down side streets … sparkling bright moving black of dead-ends, of time running out of space, in the shade of an eye, then it opens again as an aperture dilating – cones of light into cones of light. She returns to her room around midnight and shadow-boxes until she collapses in a heap on her foam mattress.