A house is dead when all the sofas are draped with old bedsheets. The purpose is to create a protective layer which prevents the settling of dust, cockroach shit and such like.Time passes. The home is unattended and is disguised by its cloth armour. The walls contain nothing but silence, while memories like the sofas, are preserved. Memory of those who have passed. Swept away by the undercurrent of time tunneling by. We feel it too, sometimes it nibbles like curious fish, othertimes, it pulls impatient and childlike. Time twists itself around nana's legs and gently begins coaxing him to wander a little further. Until finally my nana slips away, shedding his life like an old skin. They wrap him in cloth.