I dream of walking in the Andes. I wake up out of sorts, out of place, confused by the size of my bed and the clothes in my closet and the noise of the radio alarm.

I took my shirt off in the mirror and was amazed at the size of myself. The used to be. Walking 50 miles in 5 days has pulled at me, has honed me. I brushed my teeth in the sink. Hesitantly. I reach for the water bottle out of habit, not necessity.

I answer your emails with fewer words. What are these words? The keyboard is strange and stiff beneath my fingers. The air is clear and thick here. The ground soft and flat here. I am here. Was I ever there?


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