I swear to God. I got mixed up and then was lost. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean anything. I had, in fact, headed out on a jaunt, I might say if asked, so that I could skip meaning completely for a spell. I’d hopped on a plane to Over There, slipped out from the airport and into a brand-new Having A Break kind of city with hope in my heart for sustaining a speed consistently sufficient to outpace myself and every trace of significance. There’s no law against it. Other than that, I had no intentions, not one in my head. I promise you. Truly. And then in the hotel later that funny sleep caught me: the twitchy and messy unrest which comes after flight. A wrong sun was behind the curtains and my day had been knocked all westwards and stretched and my skin smelled frightened and of catering in confinement, bad catering, and also carried some harsh/sweet combination of scents that wasn’t like me and wasn’t something I could like. This despite having taken a bath as soon as I’d got to my room.
