A secret shudder let up from the bell and the building cragged itself in washes of aluminum light. Still nothing was derelict until it was chosen: a rock in the eye-socket of a child on a hill overlooking the ruins of  the sad-laughter house. No body spoke. Words carried air like a door handle mounted on a dove. Something moved. A heart whined. Polygraphs and tight jeans went out for cocktails but nothing became of it. I wanted so bad to tell the story but then the spider dropped and the weather demanded swerving. So did dogs, so did day, so did the dump and the belly and the sumptuous reserve there, hung from a spindle, traded for metal, left in the sun to crack and flub open when everything failed.