Once they walked among us, laughing, yelling, whispering, keeping watch. We knew them. We spoke to them. We took them by the hand. We loved them. They were our friends, our families, our heroes. Now, in the crumbled earth, they are our memories, remaining in this world if not visible to it. They wait for us along their shaded avenues; secluded as only urban dwellers can know seclusion among the many, within the perplexing grids laid out by those in whose care the remembrance of their history -- of their existence -- we have entrusted our dead. As we walk among the temples, towers, and stone blocks which are their witness in this time after their time, a rushing wind may stir their voices. The voices come not from the grave, but from within our own, quick, flesh-encased bones. The murmurs we hear are the murmurs of those we have lost made part of us....