I know that someone somewhere nearby is making courgette and manouri fritters—not badly, but not well. Someone else is playing music, and possibly having sex. At the same time? Or is there a convocation here, sex and strings? I know there’s damp in the building, old rot and new fungus between the stones in the cellar. There’s a mouse between my ceiling and the floor of the apartment above, but she thinks I haven’t heard her. Let it be. There’s a whispering of wheels, I think, or the wind in the lines of a sailing ship. A harbour? Or somewhere with bicycles? Carthage or Athens? I don’t smell Athens, nitrogen dioxide and particulates. I don’t smell animals in the street, either.