It won’t take long before you’re back in bed somewhere with a window open and the air that you’ve known forever blowing at you, making you wish you were gone again. It’s the jet lag, it must be, still present. There’s heat behind your eyelids. Maybe you’re tired. You could be. Four hours ago you were asleep and fourteen hours ago you were awake and then two days ago you were on a plane, westbound and then of course there was that moment three days ago when you were on the other side of the earth, considering the possibility that all you’ve done there was a waste. But then the phone had rung, or the garbage truck started playing its little jingle again, and you opened the window of that small room you never wanted to call home at all, and you smelled the sulfuric acid and the heat of scooter emissions and remembered what it was like to see.