A half-open window.Morning-fresh air carriescurious sunlight into a bedroom.Flecks of dust shimmer yellow-gold.Four feet, entwined under white sheets.Joni’s Blue, on the player.Delicate curtains slow-danceto Sunday’s tune.Laughter.Talk of: what for breakfast?Anything. Anything at all.

I’d begun to grow weary of my constant daydreaming because, as I retreated more often into fantasy, it had become a reminder of my growing discontent with real life. And my thoughts, after very little...

An awfulness was deep inside me, and I couldn’t fight it; forced into submission and taken hostage by it, I could only just lie there, let it wash over me, and let myself be consumed...

Travel is wishing for one more bite of whatever that just was.