Last night in a dream I was walking under the high ceilings of our Brussels apartment. My key still fit the door and the evening light was flooding in like it always did at dinner time. The house was empty, it was resting in the in-between, waiting for new life to put flesh on its bones.
We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away, someone said.
Do those rooms, those streets corners, those cafés and market places carry my reflections? Can something in me be found only by going back there? What would such a meeting be like?