homeward_bound werewolf i know the season pass there when i am gone. I know my mother and father and brothers still pass the days in tasks, and the seasons pass. I know this because i am informed that that is how the world works, but i cannot imagine the seasons passing there without me. I cannot imagine the years passing, or my mother's face changing, my dad's walking slowing to a limp then sporadic bits of pained crossings, from one chair to another. But what does it mean to come home when not even the winters are the same as other winters, when no winter can ever be like that one, like the year i fell under the ice. The year i stopped being able to imagine myself running arms wide, screaming at the top of my lungs over thin thin ice, the year i stopped moving like that. Home is what i left, home is what i surrendered. I'm a travelling man, and home is the dream i tuck under my pillow and search for in vain when i awake, a new day demanding me to remember things which no longer exist. 020507 what's it to you? who go blather from