The room pitches and spins. My arms splay out, and I drop into nothing. It takes a long time. Like the journey of light from stars that, by the time we put an eye to the telescope, have pinwheeled into the darkness. I reach for something, anything to hold on to. My recollections of past homes seem solid until I try to put any weight on them.

I travel from place to place. I settle for a while. I am settled, for the moment. I think about travelling to new places and also places I have been. A few places have felt like home. I belonged there. I keep memories of these homes like souvenirs, and every now and then I unpack them and look at them and feel the tightening of a slack rope. I remember belonging, and keep that feeling too like a souvenir, in some ways more precious than my actual memories of people and places and things that I did. Belonging. I treasure it. I search for more of it. I travel from place to place. I settle for a while. I am settled, for the moment. I think about... belonging.