Memories of York are but a faded postcard of a missed airbnb and sleeping at the station alone, bag knotted close to waist.
i. I fear no walls, I tell myself. This robust town has its heart in place, secret within chocolate museums and wilful fantasies of artisanal chocolatiers. Not cold cold enough: the first bite saves the world.
ii. Time chopped in precise segments by kitchen knives, an exercise in regularity, every sweep counts in fingers unhurt. Certainty is worth obsessing over. Like the fixity of the house I remember without the linearity of events that has unfolded. Feet leading to timber frames, I forget to die. You can smell the sea here in jorvik, I feel less afraid of the water already.
iii. Scaling the drama of weathered, unbent rocks at brimham in circles (this, after following the blue guidebook to the tee), little doubt remains. Strange are the tides that touched these stones, stranger still the winds. My eyes feel the most foreign. An example of space as a limited resource, a precedent in living cheek-by-jowl, only possible in the white world with bodies never loaded in cargoes with abandon. Richer decadence to follow, I must ready myself.
iv. Three and a half chocolate brownies that veritably remind of putty, a mug of the best hot chocolate and tens of chocolate tasted, I am gluttony gloop in my mind. I arm myself with chocolates white and dark, dotted with peaches, berries and the choiciest of citruses as insufficient reparation. The picture of happy specificities, the finality of sweet aftertaste jousting for space with guilt.
Like nighttime ablutions I deliberate on my imminent esc, an empty coach sprints into the passing station. Stations are the least stationary of places, commotion only adds to the notion of affect such names bring. I must catch a wink before the earliest train. I meet myself with the wheels rolling in at five.