Chelsea Road

Sometimes life smells like fresh asphalt and English rain. Too many suitcases, too little sleep, but inside there is a lightness, as if everything is starting over again. The world spins somewhere between Victoria Station and the warm light from the window on the fourth floor. Where coffee is no longer instant, and dreams are quite edible.

Everything is simple and strange at the same time: learning to love without drama, growing up without despondency, rejoicing in a pint as if it were a new planet, and thinking that maybe home is not walls, but steps along Chelsea Road in good weather. When even the wind smiles.