People move in and out of rooms, and we don't need to keep track of them or follow them or wonder how long it will be until we are uprooted and flung into other lives. The air is cold and real, the weather beating like soft wings on our faces, more of weather for its change and its freshness.
We fill up our old corners, set the kettle to boil and remember why we came home.

--
Searching my heart for it's true sorrow
This is what I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people
Sick of the city, wanting the sea.