When Joana left.

She is leaving London.

And maybe that’s the saddest thing about lovely London; in a city where everything is happening, little is permanent.

So she is leaving.

Bags and boxes packed with unmeasurables that will have to amount to 20 kilos.

Bits and pieces of inanimate life given to friends and charity.

And she’s done it before. But there’s an element to this nomadic debauchery that will feel strange to any gregarious being.

After all, she’s only human.

A surprising evolution of a mammal that learnt to draw on caves’ walls.

And she is leaving London.

With hugs; tight with future and strong with suppressed tears.

London has made its proud mark, one that does not allow cry.

But one wonders, as one watches, if the city — this Jungian living entity — feels the sting of separation.

Especially from people like her.

One hopes.

She is leaving London and she deserves more than the cliche that London won’t leave her.

But the cliche is the only thing that fits.

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