t’s early November; winter has just set in. The temperature hasn’t dipped much yet and the night is perfectly balmy. It’s a quarter past eleven. A time when thoughts, tangled in the din of pots and pans, and mundane chores and mindless banter, slither out. For an insomniac like me the day has just begun and I’ve all the time to catch up with some nostalgia. I settle down in the cane chair on my third floor balcony. From where I sit I can see crowns of densely grown trees and tiny bits of sky. Some shy leaves aren’t done yet washing themselves of the summer dust. Fog has settled on them releasing heady whiffs of moist dust. I think- nights are all about scents and reminiscence.