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Sunday, 11 April 2010


It's late. It's always late when I decide to twitch my mind towards this chequered background and these winding words. Even with absences it still feels like home - there is a place here, a place connected to my founding organ. The link pulses with every beat, strengthening and binding itself. It cannot be broken. I sit in different places, different homes, different minds sometimes but it remains, here, safe, same.

As I am in transition, between two places and another, it waits. It is kind, forgiving. There is no ill, no abandonment. It is mine and I am its.

It waits here, a constant friend, ready at any hour. It's always late when I decide to come here but it's always waiting for me. Listening.

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