I will never comprehend how people stay in one place for a very long time. Not Covent Garden performing arts-student style, but rather becoming...placed? Defined by location, I think is what I mean. Although I'm a walking example of the price one pays for the denial of all that stuff: rootlessness; lack of character definition; unquenchable Wanderlust; a passable-but-undetailed knowledge of far too many places. I worry that I am iredeemably undefined, and that the things which contribute to who I am in isolation are all that I have to define myself. But, right. I think the act of sticking around takes a kind of courage and happiness which I, apparently, do not possess. I may, in fact, press my nose up against some windows this Christmas, gazing at families and so on. Except no, I shall be on a farm in the Home Counties. Rock.