I sit in my small flat above Sebastian's Nightclub. Below, music throbs. Outside, drunks shout and brawl. By day, shoppers and office workers dash to and fro unaware of the constant disturbance that occurs after they've all gone home.

On a sofa, in front of the window, two dummies sit side by side. The male dummy wears a fair wig. The female has brown hair, fibrous to touch. Outside, down in the puke stained street, if someone cares to look up, they will see only the dummies heads and hopefully presume I have company.

Though my companions are mute, I can tell by their sour expressions that they too dislike the stench of take away food seeping through a hole in the rotten window frame, permeating the air like stale sweat. Tonight, a bitter finger of wind streams through that hole, ruffling the female dummy's dress as if she's trembling with shock or maybe fear.

But this city has been my home since I fled the country of my birth and I describe to my silent friends, stretches of fields of my childhood. I tell them about my mother, stout and comfortable, keeping our sturdy farm house spotless. I weep, even now in my dotage, as I recall her delicious, spicy stews, her rough, gentle hands. I speak of my father, broad in shoulder, short in stature, who's lips would crack open like a golden brown nut at some amusement.

And as I reminisce, my companions nod their heads as if my memories are their own and I say that when I pass beyond this mortal life, I will soar like a bird over seas and countries until I reach my beloved homeland.