The smell of fresh paint. Empty rooms. Curtain-less, naked windows.

My entire life, packed in big black trunks by my side, I stand in the middle of a room that was somebody else's till yesterday, but now was to be my sanctuary.

I always knew whether I'd like a new house or not. I would rest my head on the window pane and stare out. And I would know. Like a framed piece of art, or like the sea splashing against ancient rocks, that window to the outside was my way of knowing whether the space would allow me loneliness, solitude and quite simply, staring.

This.. here.. now.. where I stand. Is not home.

And those lights shining in the distance are not stars.