Its always hard to see a housemate leave, excited to go on to some new strange journey or kind of downcast to be leaving, and its always weird when the cleaners are no longer part of our daily lives but are off vagranting through other countries and sleeping on foreign soil and you dont even have a way to know if they’re healthy and safe or if they’re living under a bridge. It’s not as bad being the one who leaves, I think. But it’s so strange to be in one place with so many memories, and yet have the people slowly disappear. It’s almost impossible to walk through the courtyard garden at night without noticing the absence of a friendly “ey, come ere you,” from Andrew, completely reclined on the couch, eyes on you but head towards the sky – a stream of smoke flowing from his lips, his joint still glowing and resting in his fingers. It doesn’t stop me from looking to that little corner where he used to sit, but it’s either empty or occupied by a new face.
