They disappear. I try to catch a hold of them, the dangling string of an idea of them, but it’s too soon gone. There are glimpses of something through the day, a smell, an outlook, a face but nothing concrete, nothing that holds together of that world I’ve inhabited so fully for – what was it? – a minute, a minute and half? I know that there is complexity, that I do remember. They always involve a deep, layering of experience of knowing of belonging, that often it is a wrench to leave. I want to know them more, know their wisdom. How?
