We have become so habituated — to crave a sense of belonging — that often, we forget the thrill of uncertainty, the pleasure of detachment.

Written from the perspective of a brick house, this is a piece about wandering and losing oneself. For the wanderer, there are neither beginnings nor endings. Because to exist is to search, and to search is to constantly discover.Here are words that recount an adventure; sentences that trace out paved roads.

For now, let me leave you with a quote from Rebecca Solnit:

“And one does not get lost but loses oneself, wit the implication that it is a conscious choice, a chosen surrender…”

Verses weave through the photographs as such. This is how the poem was intended - for your eyes to dart here and there as you traverse through unidentified neighbourhoods of London in each photograph.

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