As shards of glass rain down like diamonds on some exotic planet I know the name not of, the tree grumbles as if angry at the obstacles littering its path. Thrashing its branches at whatever dares halt its march, the force of them as they crash against the stained brickwork of the stores and cafes causes their windows to explode. Shooting towards us, the fragments of glass dazzle and dance before being swept away by the flood of animals. On the ground behind us, they follow like a cape while the bicycles and trashcans in the alley leading to the high street are smashed to pieces by the roots that masquerade as Cthulhu-like tentacles. Swaying like a pendulum, I shield my face as yet more glass shatters. Suspended in thin air, the symphony of the shards as they collide is both a prelude to something coming our way and a signal of our exit from the way station that is the courtyard. Never seen it before, and most likely will never see it again, and yet just like so many other places from my travels, my presence within its boundaries will be forever cast in amber—a reminder of the footsteps that made me what I am. I will never be complete, only ever a work in progress—never the finished article, merely an abandoned sketch of what might’ve been. Truth be told, I wouldn’t be anything other than a bud that never flowers, full of promise and not the slightest hint of atrophy.