Now, another basement. Quiet but for the rattle of the wind through the chimney, and a distant church bell accusing time of each hour. I have tried to make a home here, somewhere peaceful after all the chaos. I don't get much time alone anymore, I don't get lonely. Sometimes I am appalled at the multitudes of world I've created, at all the lives I have lived. In Connemara the rain flattens the grass, the fog blends the ocean into sky, I look out and above through a slanted window. A sky bigger than anywhere else in the world. At the same time, all of the trains at King's Cross rush on regardless, and no one will look at each other, and no one will notice me, coffee in hand, blank-eyed like the rest of them. No one saw me touch the stones in the cemetery. Another day I dived into the still mirror of the Ladies pond, thought of drowning and shivered. One night in February, no one saw two drunk women, in love with the same dream, stumble through Islington in their winter clothes towards nothing.