In the distance, where the sky-scraping office blocks don't tread, there is always a road to follow. Closer, in my neighborhood, where it always felt safe, the road only leads to the back of the houses, around the side, up the hill and back to where it began. Infinity enclosed.

The rain came down the road in ladders, snaking from pot hole to verge, seeking out the easiest path to the lowest place, and days were filled with only that. The air still holds the moisture, even after the rain, and all the color of August has been spent on November's dreary shades.

Only the road's rustic disrepair gives away that we are not back on the island where rain *is* the weather, where early memories all play back with the soundtrack of the last few days.

I sit in quiet, now, watching the light recede across the blackest ceiling, somehow unremarkably accepted, as though nobody noticed how entirely abnormal the week has been. And it's been a week, too, since leaving this road for the last time as a part of the scene, and now I have returned only for a moment, to collect my bicycle from a lamp post and to take a look at what I'm leaving behind.

There's always something I'm leaving behind, and the odd thing that leaves me behind.

Tonight, it's belonging.

I am nowhere and nobody knows where that is, nor has anybody thought to ask.