old place

Almost three months ago, I left Oxford for London. The change was more than necessary, but nevertheless, I am grateful for my old place I had in Oxford, amidst the city center, surrounded by busy George Street, warm and silent inside, with the regular exception of the occasional fire alarm. I liked the place more than I realized when I was there; the little details made me feel at home&amp — the play of light and shadow cast from the shades, the lamp with its paper cover, the cords to handle the shades, the view onto the street, with pub, restaurant, and crossing, my incense, the tea pot I brought with me, the little stones that I managed to keep stacked up as long as I was well and had enough time for myself, the rain drops, besieging the place, my hyperactive fire alarm, another set of cords, the lamp at the bedroom ceiling during night, the little shadows on the staircase up to the second floor where I was living, some more shadows with the sun reflected in a mirror, the grid in the door window mirrored on the scratched surface of the mailbox inside, some flowers I enjoyed in the first spring I spent in Oxford, a candle in front of my desktop lamp, and a notebook with a token for luck. Nothing special at all, just the things I saw day by day.

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