Glimmering in the dawn’s waking hours, dust dancers come to rest with the wind on the cardboard city, catching on the trails of pulled back packing tape below the new layer. Ridges and creases cast shadow scars across the faces of the boxes, rising and falling like heartbeats; white curtains caress the wind in gentle, cold breaths of morning. Black sharpie scrawls out your name. As I begin shifting within the large chair, my bones cringe, my skin separating from the weaving of my afghan. I pull it closer to my face, hiding away from the crinkled tower; vainly murmuring my reminder that even faded boxes will die.