The smell of nag champa settling into the carpet. The swirl of yellow leaves in storm winds, husks spiralling into the lake, sprawled wetly across the road. Cold drizzle on your jacket, the warmth when you come into the dining room and shed your outer layers. The headlights of a car in the night rising and dipping. The shock of the water when you jump in, the almost instantaneous numbing of your limbs as they descend into the void. Habanero sauce hitting the back of your throat. An uncorking of a bottle of wine with dinner, this time a musty Bourdeaux. The darkness which always comes too early now. R&B in the afternoon, hung over on the couch. The light and the darkness. The loneliness and the comraderie at the edge of a vast emptiness.