that house was there, i was in that house again, the one that appears in various forms. It is old, sort of victorian, tall, lots of wood, rambling, dimly lit. There is always the sense of vacancy but imminent occupancy. As if the people who were supposed to be there would be back soon, or left recently, or as if some presence was always drawing near. Always a sense that we werent really supposed to be there, a sense of cool adventure. Furniture is sparse, rugs worn and faded. Balconies overlook storm-swept pines, granite. There is a tall radio tower nearby. Also, in another wood-floored place, this one light and airy, in the highlands with the smell of the sea nearby, the deep green and rocks all around. I was upstairs and from downstairs came a warm robust voice saying, Hey girl! Come down here and sing us a song! and the girl went, and as she went I said to someone else (ann?) how nice that was, how perfectly beautiful to be in a place like that and be called downstairs to sing a song. And she did, and I was partly her.