The end of a house is always very much like its beginning. As structures of ordinarity, banality, and daily schedule collapse, you find yourself eating take-aways; sleeping in your sleeping bag; using your mobile phone rather than the landline; living from your rucksack. Temporariness sneaks in and settles; still not the temporariness of the new place, but rather of your precarity laid bare. The illusion which was maintained so many months - in salvaged posters on the wall, in morning porridge, in music played in the early hours - in laughter round a crammed dinner table - has left your home to go elsewhere. These moments of beginning/end, like opening a telescope, are rich and dense and startling. A richness which perhaps no one can bear. The space where you spent many nights and days is stripped of traces of you: they are all in a pile of suitcases, boxes, bags. Suddenly this room can be anyone's: it's previous owner or its unknown next. But know this: your fleeting presence will remain long after you'll be gone, like the voice of an Opera singer lingering in the concert hall decades after that celebrated night.