I wake up to a dry breeze passing near my bed and a peculiar sunshine pushing itself through my window. My bare feet hit the wooden floor like a child’s and I step along the hall to the kitchen. The breeze seems to be everywhere, like it’s blowing straight through the apartment – west to east. The kitchen is empty. Totally empty; no table and chairs, no dishes, no wall-clock. Just the refrigerator – which is unplugged, doors hanging wide open, and the usual balls of grey dust and long strands of hair settling over the tiles. I move back along the hall and find you in your room pushing everything out of your window. You have somehow even managed to drag the stove through two rooms and to topple it from our second storey. So then I am scolding you and scolding you and my face is getting redder and my throat is getting dryer. And I’m scolding you for everything except for throwing our kitchen out the window. Then you are pouting and pouting and you are becoming paler and paler. I stop and laugh when I think of how someone once said “every apocalypse begins with things being thrown out the windows”.