A round crawl across the night road, and a soft running down someone else’s charcoal streets. The occasional passing streetlamp, rare in its glow compared to all the dusky blue houses in the night. Rows of careful constructions, dances of structure and geometry made of rooms and glass and height and views and steps that spiral and march to the sky – or, old-racked shutters and black screens and low roofs and attic windows and peaked roofs. But the light is orange and the shadows are pale, and everything looks fine in the night.

And I fly along these streets, because in the purple haze of day spent warm fires are lit from the belly of the home, and in looking you can see yellow halls and living-in rooms and pictures on the walls and figures, you can see figures too, in the kind of slightly surreal shade that only old film could hope to beat. It’s almost a shock to see through the looking-glass, a tiny snapshot of a place, but the light is inviting and in each I can see a lifetime, a place where I could return, some kind of hearth, some kind of home.