Em takes photographs of me stood outside 136 London Road, Worcester, just before twilight. She says that someone looks down from the adjoining building at us. 136 itself is surely abandoned; bushes hide the ground floor windows, weeds cover the front path. The house would have had all the air of an avoided house, but the building seems to have shrunk in on itself, as if trying to take itself out of existence - out of having ever existed.
136 London Road belongs now to evenings like this, to a ragged and obscure rain, to barely remembered twilights, and dreams that haunt with far more brightness in their shadow than those cast on these barely-summer days.