A House

I have just arrived in New York with Ilian. We are in the house on Elmridge Road. Just the two of us. It is strange.
Smell is more connected to memory than any other sense, and I find that true here more than anywhere else. This place has a smell all its own, not only unique but very specific. You get used to it pretty quickly, to the point where it becomes almost undetectable. Almost. But that moment where you first step in to the house it is incredibly strong, thick with memories and permeating everything.

I have drunk. It is important to dream at times like these. I meant drink, but some typos are best left uncorrected.

Is it possible for a place to be on its deathbed?
More than people or things, the places that have been home to both deserve immortality.