Studying the nostalgias. Why does it only happen sometimes in city life that you find yourself looking at someone's situation in passing and with a shock of mild surprise recognise a life that you once knew without ever having lived it or remembered it, only the deep flavour, the ownness of it, and it fills you with a strange sort of longing to go back there, to revisit that time in the now and future when it has forever been closed off to you because it was a more sweet than bitter season when time stood still for a beat or two and you thought that you'd come home instead of being just a tenant in the latest honeycomb cell of the human hive and now it shines through other eyes? And you can't quite believe that it is going on here still, so new, as if for the first time, because it's always the first time, while you walking by are so half-completed and not yet fully checked in to where you were dropped from uneasy dreams this morning with the lease still to sign. And you realise that all you can see through this 'rich tapestry' are tenants who believe they're home and being so until moved on to the next apartment, or bed, or site or whatever it is that's the metaphor they use to try to make sense of this endless conveyor of the timeless through the stations of time.