cycling home from town, unable to whistle or sing the words of ‘Sophia’ that repeatedly bump around like a needle in a stuck record, I hum – like my granddad letting the sounds spill over and over the handle bars relaxing into knowing what feels good. because for weeks, I have wondered why I am back here, and looking at this city, you would also wonder - but life is slowly falling into the cracks of some kind of belonging. I have become a mongrel of place, really at home nowhere. a week can start from quiet tears and forced activity trying to fit in to turning upside down ending with laura marling standing taut like a thin column exposing everyone of us to her unassuming, gentle, powerful all consuming singing right here in Sheffield. everything
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