i miss this.
i miss this about being on the road.
finding myself in a new bed, usually on the bottom bunk, and staring up at the markings of travelers past.
wondering where they are now. if christof is still on the road, if heidi married a fellow norwegian and bought a house in the hills, if mark wilson is now a big-wig lawyer in kingston…
it’s vandalism that feels more like the start of a journal entry that only ever finishes when they put the cap on the pen and get out of bed. and go live.
strange what we miss.