the dog ran ahead through the wet ferns. he kicked at a tree root.

"so you're back then."

"for a bit. yes." my boots, bought for performative hikes near the m25, felt foolish.

we came to the line of the old wall. a few layers of roman brickwork disappearing into the mud.

"do you ever think about them. the people who built this."

"it's just always been there."

he threw a stick for his dog. his contentment was a solid object in the air between us.

"it's quiet."

"that's the point of it."

i wondered if i could ever be this calm. or if my brain was already a fallen province, too full of noise and stylized despair.

the flat feels sunday-still, a temporary truce with the usual chaos.
on the pine shelves, joan didion's cool gaze meets nietzsche's abyss.

his tea, like mine, is lukewarm.
he's looking at the wall, a small mercy.
i think it might be actual companionship, this quiet.

dinner will be something from a tin, probably beans on toast.
or maybe i'll make an effort, a proper cacio e pepe, to prove something to myself.
i wonder if saint jude covers existential dread.
he nods occasionally. it's enough.
the silence holds something.
this place is slowly becoming mine.