You certainly don't have to tell me.

[He was rubbish as a gardener, too, except for the fact that the flowers bloomed riotously and there were always birds. So many birds.

He sighs and reaches out a hand to him. The very short amount of time they've disengaged is intolerable. He's finding as long as there's some touch, it's not the painful, insistent drive, a new balance point.]

I'll have to, won't I? I can't stay here. I don't need all of this, just somewhere to put on a kettle and keep a few books.

[He doesn't need a bed or a kitchen, he thinks. Or all of the glass and shininess that reminds him unpleasantly of corporate up top.]