It is four in the afternoon. I sit in near-silence at my desk. I open the curtains, and look out, straight ahead, at a soft, gray day. The naked, dried branches of trees blanket the layers of red-brick buildings against a leaden sky. This day reminds me of a day six months ago when I had returned to London, on a September, and it was yet another gloomy afternoon. But there was a bit of sun behind a veil of clouds. I could see it. Today, not so much.

And on the windowsill is a pot of fresh coriander, a dried rose and scented candles. I close my eyes and smell this bouquet of scents. And all that comes to me is the tender promise of something beautiful...

Last night, I stood by the window and observed an empty street. It was still raining lightly, falling against a background of still, white houses... What was I looking for? I don't know. Maybe it was merely trying to find something new in a street I had come to know very well. I thought about how it would feel to be on the other side. There, standing outside in the rain, and looking at this very window, and wondering what stories it hides.

I thought of my own mistakes, weaknesses, fears - and my intermittent feelings of sorrow. I thought of how I could make right the wrongs that I have committed again, towards myself, towards others. But mostly, towards myself. I thought about how much we, humans, expect from each other and how much we fall short. I thought of that afternoon in September, the air so magnificent, the breeze so delicate, and later that night, the sky ablaze with stars. This is too much. I return to the sofa overwhelmed...