seasons have dimension here, and drift into each other as solid blocks of time that scatter over distance. the day leaks droplets of winter too soon on the red felt of my hat, and i am contented with the lifty squelch of puddles and flipflops combined. i open the door of this new-again home, and there is a box there waiting for me. how many places have i lived in two years? how many places haven't i? right now, there is too much light in this brightened nightless room, and the stumbling sounds of people in the kitchen are too clear as they filter through me. i think of the muffled shared up sounds of berlin, the gentle drift of fremantle, and i wonder how it is that seems came to be just so. someon tells me vancouver is a good fit, but i am not so sure. because, my friends, things here are chipper. and i find a little small portion of my heart longing a little for the lifted step of a polish staircase, the cracked plaster facade of paris. the wrinkles at the eyes, the folds at the edges. because, my friends, here i am close to the beach and it smells like home. because in similarity i discover all the things i am missing.