Concrete backyards, balconies bleached in the sun of decades, small dried meadows. Ones own silence overwhelmed by the many different noises and chatter from too many different flats. A radio playing old music, a phone calling for attention using that stock ringtone everyone knows by now. Two voices involved in an argument that turns emotional and quiet all of a sudden, as doors close. And a mother calling on her kids to return home and bring the ball and the dog. Which seems to happen. Close to 9pm. Somewhere in between districts, like outskirts in between worlds.