My sanctuary was a cool stone courtyard with a stone fountain and a towering jacaranda tree. The flowers would carpet the sandstone paving and gradually turn into a sweet smelling, fementing purple mush. I read books there, and smoked, and listened to the birds. The courtyard, I remember, had an echo which made all the sounds it contained magically immanent, or pregnant with a gently unutterable meaning. Later, when I was swirled away from that life into a new, unrecognizeable one, I found that this place had taken root in my body.