Only 5 days into this month and I've gone feral (my period is goddamn late… 11 fucking days). I forget how to eat, I forget how to work, I forget how to chit-chat. I start to hanker for other, remote places. I want to climb up a mountain and never come back down. I want to ride rough seas and gaze into the eyes of whales and never see port again. Even Hell sounds like a good place to visit.

Oh, I want to find a library where the exit signs are missing and live in its crowded, labyrinthine passages on air, wine, and stories. I want to lie on a patch of grass in an ever-flowering garden, where a wee black dog pants in the shade, and apples and figs brush my shoulder or thump, gravity-plucked, in the shadows as I watch clouds pass above me for days. I want to chance upon a waiting room with plush velvety armchairs and a platter of gingerbread biscuits on the coffee table, as well as every book I've ever wanted to read, and I might sit here for the rest of my life, waiting for god knows what, lost in this or that tale.

Sometimes I might want to be missed but I don’t want to miss anyone until I must absolutely have to, and then I’ll return to the place I can finally call home, by a circuitous and roundabout way through all the bookshops and cafes and museums of the world, and sneak into bed while you’re out, and maybe you'll find me there, just waking up from a dream in which I was away for centuries in all sorts of wonderful and weird places.

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