Music I found aplenty. The hammered copper pot, every scalloped dent edged in wan sunlight, made me think of a steel drum, made me measure the circumference of each dent with my fingertips, and contemplate the unique pitch each must sing struck by a spoon. Old metal signs advertising coca-cola, cars, rooms $5 a night that would ring like gongs if I hit them. Civil-war bullets, round and tarnished yellowgray. An "armory" full of swords, curved knives more show than balance, civil war sabers. What song then, notes and rhythm and long ghost-drowsy fermata, put these nicks in the blades, flattened these bullets to pancakes?
My favorite thing there was a dressmaker's mannequin, ancient. Wood covered in faded blue cloth upon adjustable metal ribs, rusted here and there. The cloth loose, unevenly faded and torn, given breath by the dusty wind and depth by the soft clear wan sunlight. It was beautiful, in the way that makes awareness of something, of another time, of fingertips who once fashioned folds and ribbons and silk upon. Every time I attempted to line up a photograph, the proprieter's footsteps came around the corner, creaky on the wooden castle floor, and I lowered my camera, unable or unwilling to explain why I found the mannequin so compelling, to stretch words over distant ghosts and their music.