but I remain unconvinced that the distinction, for my purposes, matters.
Joan Didion, On keeping a Notebook, 1966
Sometimes people stand for something, for an atmosphere. For me you were always a refuge and an asylum I could return to and had to return to.
My refuge was this certain atmosphere: The room where you slept, the window always at bed-head, wherever you lived. Sheltered in this cold oriel I could see the trees in the wind, in the rain, their leaves above my head. The garden with its old trees, the moldered pergola, heavy with savaged vine, the tranquility of it. The chaos and calmness of your rooms, this still life.
But you were also my asylum. And so I had to leave.