I stood by the window. I felt like I was at home, or, at least, in a home. One of my homes. Did I have so many I could no longer keep track? Is it that we all used to live in caves once that makes us like these little enclosures?
If we did live in caves. I knew there were conflicting opinions about that. Nevertheless, in the popular mind we used to live in caves. We were once cavemen and women. Is it that old cave dwelling instinct what makes us want to huddle in places like this, where the walls and roof are so close and the surroundings so rudimentary? I’ve heard some say that. Don’t know if any of it is true. Don’t know if it matters.
It can feel womb-like to be in such a place, especially if it is dark. And that is the first home, isn’t it? The coffin at the end, also dark and close,
