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There is no time. No day, night. No hour for eating, or sleeping. I am always tired, always dozing, but never fully asleep. I am never hungry and never full. I am fed dinner at midnight local time and then breakfast at 3 a.m. local time. These are seven hours apart. I am in crowds. I drink but am not satisfied.

I am in a winter where the cool air falls gently on my bare arms and bare toes. I am on a bus where the sun hits my shoulder backwards and the trees outside are like gigantic versions of baby pine trees. The same proportions. I am walking up a hill looking for a hostel. A fellow on the street tells us as we pass that he once hitched from New York to the West coast with twenty dollars in his pocket. This was in the 1970s. We are the kind of people you can tell that to in passing. I am sampling free food on the hostel table. Mashed potatoes and fish in a croissant-like pie crust. I am telling my brother to profit from the gratuity, and he is not jumping to the task like he ought. I am without a clock. Always without a clock. Always without the touch of the other world, there, where I used to be. I am typing on a site filled with blocks instead of letters, where the computer stays seven spaces behind my typing. I am still tired. It is not yet 8 o’clock here. I will prepare for bed.

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