There have been times when wanderlust has made a bit of a number of itself, yelling fly, fly away. Run, run as far as you can, no faster, faster, even faster than you can.

I hear it but normally don’t listen. Or can’t—whatever the reason—do as it says.

And there have been times when I’ve had to fly to—fly back to—back to what I would much rather run away from. At such times wanderlust doesn’t have a say about it, it isn’t even allowed in the room. At such times all there is to do is be there, right there, sitting, waiting, thinking, remembering.

There are containers stacked outside the window, covering the view to the church, partly.