wearing my tie

That was enough of a sign. In a draughty bothán, they looked at themselves in grubby mirrors, uncertain of whether it’s muck gathering on their faces or just mirror-murk. The wind is extra howly due to the jagged, stone walls and inspiration is all around; that raw feeling that they sought, the unknowable voice which drew them in from the comfort of their previous existence to lighting fires with damp newspaper, unexpected winter chimney burns, nothing but the wind at the door, playing tricks on them; whipping round the house, hopping between the stones and pressing its face against the windows. They loved it. Some lived away from the maincrop, like some kind of boutique curio, demanding gossip and stories of the locals and this, a rare treat for the starving, once cultivated ego, now gone feral and overgrown, blending into the landscape. It’s not easy to hold on to past presuppositions and judgements in such a place. The fuel you burn is your own and your fix has to be nature and being blasted and the light, the strength of the hills and the expanse of nothing beyond for thousands of miles.