I. Blame. That. Damned. Sniper. Girl.

The city is a wasteland. Blackened corpses, husks of destroyed houses, charred roads, and the twisted remains of trees. Broken crazy paving, ruined towers that arch their broken arms towards the sky as if begging for mercy. A slate-grey sky, today, that only sometimes opens up to admit shafts of sunlight to warm the earth. It is almost curiously empty. But these are ruins. This is the city we now live in.

The men here have a hard and hungry look to them as you walk past, their eyes devouring you. The women keep their eyes downcast. Parents slap at wayward children, scream at them. Teenage girls stare vacantly with swelling bellies while ashing cigarettes and yell at passers by who attempt to molest them to fuck off. And it is all you can do to keep your eyes on the sky.

I had originally never found beauty in this wreckage, these ruins, the scraps of civilisation. It exists almost as fragments from every time, this city. Bits cobbled together over the years; and even after the disaster, the end of history... makeshift recycled structures bravely strike a pose and hide the huddled refugees of another time, too bewildered to go out, to rebuild a life outside, in the sun.

You and I do not think of ourselves as refugees, I do not think. Perhaps we do not belong here, but we try not just to survive, but to live.

There are other parts of this urban wasteland... parts which are relatively intact, which survive almost as they always did. The people there lead a relatively prosperous, almost sheltered lives, dimly aware of but certainly not involved in the rough, unkempt lives of those that live in the bombed out areas. They have simple lives, simple, pretty lives with none of the mess, none of the complexity. I used to envy them, to be madly jealous... to hate them. But now, I see with sadness the flatness of their lives.

I try to craft something beautiful out there... something for me and you. In the house that sometimes covers us, when we are both here, there is this one room that is almost intact. An old room from, perhaps, the 20s. I collect bits of beautiful things, a scrap of fabric, an ornamented spoon, a picture that reminds me of your smile, the way your hair moves in the wind. I construct a room that is entirely our lives, the intersection of our lives. And some of it is an extrapolation of the people we are; a mythological history of how we are, and came to be, and not how we exist right now. Everything in this room has been salvaged from wreckage, from the city, from the ugliness, the twistedness that supposedly surrounds us. But I look carefully, precisely, and I find the beauty that I can, and that I want to share with you.

I want to share the world with you.

You have asked me several times what I do in my room, alone, and I just smile and say that it is a surprise. You look so sadly at me as you turn away. My heart sinks. I know that you will love it, that this secrecy is worth it in the long run, but I fear that as I push you gently away, that you are tearing yourself from me, hurt. Sometimes in my little room, I feel safe and alone from you, the pull of you. And then I yearn for you when I am alone in our house, the life that we have made for ourselves.

Every now and then, though, we lie close, barely saying anything, perfectly relaxed, loose in each others arms. And I am so close to you that there is no "I", no "you". We just are. And I hear the beat of your heart through your clothes, your skin. I feel complete peace, in the house of ours, in our destroyed city, in the World we live in.

I love you so much.

There is the glory of sunlit days, alone. The beauty of Sunday afternoons with nothing to do, lazy, talking to you of nothing at all, just nonsense. The simplicity of seeing the leaves bud on the trees and slowly grow and unfurl. Sunsets spent watching the sky, the city, your eyes, your smile.

One day I will have to leave here, I will outgrow it, and I know that you will too. But for now, we are entangled in each other, unable to be separated. Fused, so that it is unclear where you end and I begin. Quiet, safe and warm.

I want to take you with me, I want to show you the world. I want to hug you, in pure joy, in the streets of Paris. I want to take you far away from here, far away from this place.

For now, it is the city that is ours. We own this place. And it looks after us. The city protects. So we slumber, and I collect my montage.

And wait for the moment to show you my heart.

As I knew we would, we outgrew our small corner of the destroyed city and left our house. The house we had constructed out of the wreckage of a burnt ruin. The small life, the world, the piece of beauty and warmth. One day we both hugged (the way we always do) and went out for the day. And never returned.

For days I walked in a daze. I could think nothing but of survival in this warzone. I ran from shade to shade avoiding the gunfire rat-a-tatting from cars, windows, buildings. A bomb exploded not far from me one day; walking past afterwards I saw that three children had died in the blast. A severed hand clutched a toy. I shuddered.

I ate where I could, in the dark. Snatched bits of sleep in abandoned doorways. In tattered beds I shared with cats. On mattresses huddled with fellow orphans of the city.

I was far too wild-eyed, disshevelled, shell-shocked to feel alone.

Then the Armistice was signed.

I only heard about peace coming to the City days after it had happened, in dribs and drabs, in snatches. But something had changed almost overnight in the city. You could feel... not a silence, but a warm buzz in the air. An energy.

Peace.

The streets became safe again and people started to walk around, timidly at first. Every now and then you would see a car patrolling in uniformed insignia. There was no more gunfire.

Not long after that I found another corner to sleep in. A house with a spare room. and I slept and slept.

My dreams were of the war. Missiles careening down into my old house. Nations torn apart. Armies of death, with silence in their eyes. The world ending with billions dead. Tactical warfare. And of a hot hot dry wind blowing harsh sand across the desert and into my city. Burying us alive.

I would wake occasionally to take a piss, to eat some of the food at my door, to drink, and then back to my never-ending dream.

Eventually I started to explore the house I was in. It was one of the few mansions left. An old, massive house in disrepair that was once worth millions. Marble floors. An elegant, sweeping staircase. There was even a piano, and a courtyard filled with light. And dust.

I started to play the piano once more. My fingers creaked and stumbled to begin with but I slowly pieced together what I was aiming to say, in those notes. I evolved a long, slow piece of wandering music. And this music filled my dreams, and my dreams slowly took on the meaning of the present; peace, quiet, harmony.

And then I started to walk down the street. I started noticing people once more, saying hello and smiling. I got to know a few of the local people. Their faces had the signs of wear and tear, of horrors experienced. But they were smiling.

A few shoots pushed up from the cracks in the concrete. Devoid of constant destruction, life was coming back, in the form of growing, sturdy plants, to the City. Houses started to become solid and sturdy- actual walls made of mud-brick rather than corrugated iron shacks. People set up stalls and started to sell all manner of things they had created. And even better, people would huddle around and joke and talk.

I even saw some of the people I used to see a lot. And they were putting on weight, joking, smiling. I started to make plans...

At night I sometimes hear a lost, lone wolf howling at the moon. I am sure I have heard him padding past my door, sniffing, then moving on. Every now and then I try and espy him before he leaves, but I never quite catch a glimpse. I dream about putting furniture and books and luxuries in my house now- not of the war. And I dream about this wolf. I wonder what it all means?

After awhile I moved from my broken house, war-bombed to a new one. I had a little money and was in a state to acquire new things and so I was in the market for a new place. They were making some new rooms fashioned in abandoned factories and other buildings and so I thought, why not.

There was the smell of sawdust and fresh paint. Bright, airy light. A warm, sweet breeze.

I had got into a little business with a few people I had met here and there. Exchanging details and just putting myself forward was enough, it seemed. I was once again excited and interested in this city reborn and my joy was shared.

I found myself in a routine but walking about in the sunlight, new suit on my back and attaché in hand I felt nothing but freedom and the simple joy of a quiet, industrious life.

But as life grows more normal, humans find something new to complain about. The weight of others' concerns pressed upon me. And I was bored.

A couple of kittens found their way into my house and I fed them scraps until they were no longer afraid of me. A few birds nested in the exposed roof beams above my lounge room. I acquired some timber and built myself some new furniture and bartered for some old things.

My place became a home, for myself. Alive.

Life was festive and calm. People celebrated with flags waving, music playing. There were parades. Trade links were re-established. Shops were prosperous. There was a hope, a liveliness. Excitement in the air. And I was part of it.

It was a hot night, a wet night. The damp of fog. A dark night. The smell of grass and dust. A feeling a little like petrol. Volatile.

A breeze lightly stirred. Everyone was asleep, every human. Here and there someone would stir in the mugginess, yawn and fall back asleep, completely unaware that they had woken. The occasional one who was aware of wakefulness would feel a strange, ill feeling in the air. A sense of keenness.

But things were almost completely still.

A wolf padded around the city, delicately. It sniffed at the air and moved only when it was sure. It was a hungry, scrappy, fierce creature covered in scars. It was largely silent, tentatively flitting between elongated, shifting shadows.

A wolf ran through human habitation, past the smell of kerosene lamps and refuse, past cooling food, over painful, hard cobblestones, past the smell of sweat and urine.

A wolf stood and stared at my house. It ran circles around it. And howled.

I know this because I dreamt it.

In the morning, it was gone.