There is no elephant in the room. The elephant is the room.

Here language always fails.

Sometimes beautifully, sometimes less so

But always unable to touch what it reaches for

The anxiety and fear of a week ago is gone. Traces remain as ever-diminishing memory. Then as now, it was, is and will only ever be movements of thought. There is nothing more than a conjuring of images and feelings, none of which have anything to do with what is here, now.

Cold. Darkness. Street lights. Stillness. An alarm. Distant shouting. The merest hint of dawn.

There is no right or wrong time nor right or wrong place.