It is strange indeed how seemingly trivial everyday activities -- having a bath, making a cup of tea, listening to the sounds outside before falling asleep in the small hours, catching a glimpse of the fist morning light through the half-opened curtain -- acquire an almost ritualistic, dreamlike quality when you know you are performing them for the last time in a particular place.
As though you were walking barefoot down a cliff path and feeling every stone beneath your feet.
As though you could taste the tears a friend struggles to hold back when waving you goodbye at the station.
As though you were sleeping one final night in your small prison cell before being set free.
The bittersweet flavour of last things.
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