The window. There is always a window. You know you should not, but still. There is always that one window. There is something behind it. A secret or a memory. Whenever you pass it you know there is something there. Perhaps. One day. When it is dark, and no one can see you. Perhaps then, at that very moment. There is no reason to make a plan. You know it when the time is right. It is when it will revile it self; the past and the present. The wind is biting through all the clothes. The new woollen jumper with matching scarf and cap are no match for the wind this late January evening. To bad both the jacket and gloves are at home. The sky is dar