There is something remarkable about knowing a house intimately. Being able to walk about in the dead of night without bumping into any furniture. Understanding the difference between the unique creeks of the doors and floorboards. I remember about twenty years ago waking up to the noise of my fathers knees popping as he reached the top squeaky step of the main stairs. 7am without fail he’d be there walking down the hallway to my door to tell me to get ready for school. Of course I was already awake but when he’d come in I’d still have my eyes closed and wait for him to turn on the lights. I found a beauty in the simplicity of the situation. The routine of it all.