The rain lashes, the wind whips, many damp people groan and tut at the audacity of a wet winter. A journey; a long one with bags of objects that would be considered entirely surplus. We arrive and are left in the absence of tension. The scent in the air is a thousand dissipated clouds of perfume wafted from the pulse points of those who have loved and left. The light is disarming. All quiet apart from the string of low music and dulled thuds of footsteps.

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