but jet lag has a way of making even comfortable beds in comfortable neighborhoods seem foreign. There should be a term for this sort of chain reaction of literary progeny: you read a book that forces you to read a book that forces you to read a book, the textual equivalent of a wild night out. but I just want to fade the instinct a little bit, to train myself for more durable content.

and of course, my mother is upset at me for not having sent her any yet to begin the ritual of unpacking, to return to my old habits and objects and find all of them a little richer from the time spent away. My to-do list is very long right now, and I’ll be spending the rest of this Sunday in my inbox. But I am so much happier than I was this time last week — my legs more tired and my head less fogged.