“topoanalysis, then, would be the systematic psychological study of the sites of our intimate lives” (Bachelard 8)

As I drag my feet along this way, I leave no stone unturned – the gravel rolls under my tired shoes, sounding the words that they might speak if they had lips as well as a tongue. Horses are said to move faster as they near their stables, as if home is always desirable over all other places. Here, an urge to get home has shortened the route – or was it in leaving that this path was made? Sunrise and sunset look the same in a photograph, and a path tells no tales of which way it began – only where it is now. This is not my home; I am neither coming nor going, only passing through. As I step off the path, the gravel falls silent, and my feet drag on.