It’s a darkening, wet afternoon at the onset of winter. A gust of wind tugs at a line of purple Salvia flowers and their stems dip towards the street below. Outside the supermarket, the plastic grass glares spring green, and the plastic vegetables gleam like jewels. A couple of doors along, at the entrance to Dwell House, a group of men in their late twenties pull on hand-rolled cigarettes and remember countries where the earth smells of sunshine. The words Dwell House are written in metal blue capital letters above a tired looking doorway. “[to] be human … means to dwell” said Heidegger, but then the dictionary tells me this word has its meanings tied up with negatives: delay, stupefy, hinder, harass, perplex. The last definition, though, has more hope in it: continue in existence, last, persist; remain – and I remember our conversation about permaculture; how we might create something lasting, how we might persist.