I sometimes go off to my country home, where the pace is slow and every moment deep. There, the world becomes small and vivid, in which one follows birds in their rustle or hears crickets list their griefs. Without looking, you could feel the sun slant upon your toes, or the air hold your face. The aloneness brings me to sit with my own demons, like in that violet hour when desolation and lucidity meet. It is true what they say about rest, too about allowing, revelations and peace. You realise I am not talking about travelling, that (by God) I own no holiday house of any kind… at least not outside of me.