This trip is all over me. Sand from Valencia in my pockets, and my skin still warm from Barcelona. I'm trying to think about how I'll do it next, for how long, with what excuse. Conversations at four in the morning about why I believe what I believe have a different taste when the air is balmy and the bass is pumping in the background. I have new questions and hardly answers; but I have hope. Going alone isn't lonely when there are other people overflowing with the same sehnsucht. They see the word on me and ask what it means. As I'm explaining it-almost the opposite of deja vu; this longing for something that can not really be reached, but you know where in the distance it lies and have tasted it before, and are moved toward it with the soul-they sometimes close their eyes and smile. They nod and they understand because they have it too. My mind is chocolate melting into creases of other people's experiences and questions. I'm not confused, only newly curious,