I'm not sorry that I'm not flying and fleeing like I was that last time I flew, but, still, something of that travelling I miss and crave. something of the way that streets and rooms and moments felt more enveloping. all the edges of the days feeling round and smoothed and full, like a thing to run your tongue across. a sense of it all being: here, somehow. by that I mean, there, where I was. you don't have that, and by that I mean, it's hard to keep that, when you are where you really are living.

not where you're dreaming about staying.

where you're staying longer just cause you can. cause there's work you can do and all signs say you can.

and you've found a cozy place to keep staying. where it only costs twelve euros a night.

and you're living thoughtlessly off a swelled, just-paid bank account with exchange rates in your favor.

spending each day reading hundred year-old letters.

going home by the trams to the trains, whose frequencies and systems you've just figured out.

and, well,

well.

it feels very long ago.

c is home now, and when I saw him again yesterday, it felt so good, and I had this odd sensation of having known him for so long now. years and ages, somehow. and it's not long, honestly, when you count the months. yet that feeling: something time-tricking about it. that feeling: you are so familiar to me. so known.

I wrote him recently:

you know me the way I want to be known. and love me the way I want to be loved.

which is the way I've wanted to be loved and known, and didn't think I could be.

for a lot of reasons I was crying when I wrote that.