I’ve been taking the train to my parents a lot lately, and so consequently to the house where I grew up. It is the strangest form of travel; taking me from past to future but never really to the present. As if duration and the passing of time – never the stillness of the moment – are all I am confronted with when looking at the old family pictures around the house, my parent’s wrinkles in their faces, the new paintings on the wall and the Steinway collecting dust.