The streets were pitch dark, or simply felt that way because it seemed impossible to distinguish when the buildings on either side began or when they ended. The walls stretched forever and faded into shadow, and any notion of depth disappeared into a blackened void.

For our all creativity and ingenuity as a human race, we still made awful constructs like these: mere rectangles from all sides and all possible vantage points. But it was a small brick house hidden amongst these indifferent edifices that we were aiming to reach, for an intimate evening of folk music.

What would it have been a century or two ago, when we might have gathered in a village square, instead of a modern lifeless desert reachable only car because the buses don't come frequently enough, and even then we wouldn't have been able to see at which stop we ought to alight?

You recognised me in the hallway, but not for my face nor my name, more for something I have stood up for, fought against, have written and talked about. I felt humbled by the sincerity of your young voice telling me that what I am doing is important, buried the feeling of having been inadequate and merely thanked you.

You told of having sung songs around a camp fire, but I could harbour no such childhood experience. The only similar memory I had were those hot, tropical nights when our city drowned in darknesses of frequent blackouts, swallowed by the silence when the electricity stopped humming, televisions left to die like cold chemical bricks of black and mosquitoes provided background melodies to the sound of my piano as I randomly pulled notes from the humid air and spun them into song.