Books of the Dead A familiar story. Cobwebs, dust, great shafts of sunlight piercing downcast spaces. Young growing old growing still growing. Silence. Also silence, reverberating through to our waiting ears. When was the last time these walls heard laughter? Perhaps those craved-for sounds will brush against them today. Out of the trucks come the men and the boxes and the steely steely eyes. I was placed here with an uncoordinated reach, the tiniest fingers tracing my spine. I was placed here with a sticky touch, my cover catching on my neighbours. I was placed here with an absentminded stare, not really where I was supposed to be at all. I was placed here with a trembling hand, carefully and delicately, lined up perfectly. We mark the passing of time. We chart the contents of her mind and the states of her emotions. We watch as pitter patters become stomps, become confident and self assured. We greet each new neighbour, warmly sharing custody of her thought. We know the dust as her protector. Will the camera do the same?