I dream that I've moved, but my things are still at my old place, which is exposed to the elements. My belongings are heaped here and there, and sometimes a magpie sneaks in, taking this and that, a book, a ring, an eggcup. Sometimes I visit it, to look at my things, at the remains of my last life. On my latest visit I notice a large lump under a blanket, looking suspiciously like a corpse. I don't dare to lift the edge of the blanket.