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As she sat looking at the pictures, she had a colossal wave of nostalgia sweep over her. It started at her head, slowly washing down to trickle between her toes, lapping into puddles on the carpet. She understood that she was warm, but felt slightly cold inside: the potential to change was there, just embrace the familiarity of the monumental unknown.

The tea, the rain, the beer, the chocolate. Everything seemed better, more lush, more exotic. And peering at images on the telly made her eyes sting and ears pop; she knew she was whole, but had a shallow depression etched into her mind where she knew things ought to be filled. Not so much replaced but added, so that a level, satisfactory contentment was experienced again. Just to touch down and breathe the air.

It wasn’t so much sulking moodily off in a corner, but more an optimistic longing for the future ahead. Again, the holding dear of the ambiguity.

Things were always adapting, always exciting and always full of vivacity, one only had to embrace the realization of the release of control before forward propulsion was to commence.

Why were there birds outside her window?