Vor returned.

“Our demands as far as time is concerned are less exorbitant than those which the heart requires in order to change”



It took many years before the flames that ensconced his home town vanished and only did they do so- when the town became a haven from London. His attic room, the room of his teenage years, consisted of various artifacts of that time, a time barely to his mind comparable to what is generally thought to be synonymous with that tiresomely pined after chapter titled: the teenage years. These artifacts stirred no emotion, no predatory memory lied in wait. The things-merely were just things. No Proustian deluge, nothing.

On several occasions, drawn to the windows on either side of the attics slopping ceiling, Vor considered visiting the sea and the hills. Neither prompted more than a vague consideration of a possible visit, neither commanded a pull greater than sitting on his single bed and reading Proust’s ‘Within a budding grove’ all day.

For all the lack of a desire on Vor’s part to return to memories obtainable in the things in his parent’s attic, he found no such reluctance on account of his memory to remind-to remind him of a girl he knew and was very much attached to whilst living in Brighton- when reading of the protagonist’s plight with regards to Swann’s daughter Gilberte.