Nowhere better than this place.

After my last Thursday evening concert, after the men with fast fingers took our breath and left us gasping with applause, I walked home alone in the deep blue, the dusk at 10 p.m. now brighter than the nightfall was at 7:30 the first Thursday I walked to Kettle's Yard all those months ago. During the interval, I found a massive stack of A1 paper, each sheet reading simply, "Nowhere better than this place." A stack resting opposite it read, "Somewhere better than this place." "Please help yourself," said a sign on the wall. Yes, I will, thanks. I thought this to myself. Both are so true, such hopes and such knowledge.