Answer truly, if only for a moment and to yourself: how are you in the home of your body? In the home of my body, there is silence. A loud silence perhaps. One I have begun and ceased to write to you from. Here, it is morning and in my new home, prayers are in the air before most people draw their waking breath. A prophetess’ voice cuts through the pre-dawn dark, calling the women keeping vigil to prayer. When their roar quiets, an Arabic song pours out of a distant speaker and the sun peaks into the sky—recognising its name nested within the call.