Five minutes of writing in the taxi. A Benz. Different from mine, but the same.
Headed for Malpensa on a Saturday morning in early spring.
Back to liminal space: airport lounges, airplanes. It’s not as if Milan itself isn’t liminal space to me — well, maybe it isn’t, but hotels and restaurants feel like it to me. No fixed abode, buying my right to be present.
I feel untethered. And for the first time realizing that if I moved here I would always feel grafted, not rooted. Like it or not, I know where home is.