A Sense of Place


I’m on a train into the countryside. We stop at a small station. I’m stood on the roof. A blond woman with a child, asks me if it’s worth joining the railway society, and collecting things. I tell her it is. She smiles at me through the transparent roof of the carriage. 
I’m in my shared room. I’ve been away. T and C have been using my double bed while I have been away. I will not be relegated to a single bed. I see sticky notes on the desk. Missed calls. Not sure who they’re for. 
I’m at Clovelly train station. Yellow submarine trains sit silent on overgrown tracks. It’s in the USA. I wander. Cars drive on the wrong side of the road. Small children from large families get under my feet. I didn’t grow up here. My personal mythology is different. To the people I pass, each view, each building, holds memories and associations. I have no memories here. No sense of place. 
I pass renovated buildings. Oasthouses. Across the road, truncated stretched globe buildings, roughly the shape of human heads, but tower blocks of apartments. I photograph one, taking it’s portrait. 
I wander through a dental fair, wondering about molar extraction, and if my health insurance covers it. 
๐Ÿ‘„๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿข๐Ÿ“ท๐Ÿ“ฑ๐Ÿš—๐Ÿš•๐Ÿš™๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ’ญ๐ŸŒฑ๐ŸŒพ๐Ÿš‚๐Ÿ“

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