The old man lives in an old house which is in sad disrepair. He feels that something should be done, and yet the house is slated to be demolished in the near future, though no one can say exactly when. Everything is slipping, sagging. He can see it with his own eyes day by day. He can see that things are in dire need of repair, for without this the house will surely collapse, and yet it is slated to be demolished anyway in the near future. In the meantime, he looks out the windows, opens all the curtains, raises all the blinds and leaves the doors open so that friendly creatures can enter, and at night he closes things down and sleeps immediately and often dreams of things he might have done, or should have done, or did not do, and his dreams tell the same story of neglect and disrepair and are more worrisome than the day itself, for when the day comes he reopens every door and window and curtain and shade and the light floods in and sometimes various dogs come in too, bearing a sharp scent of vigor into the air of ruin. He feeds the dogs, he looks out the windows, he waits for someone to arrive, and the old house creaks and leans and sinks, shedding itself board by board, brick by brick. He only hopes that it can persevere until the indeterminate day arrives.