she’s running through the world, twisting her own stories into trails behind her, collecting words and mixing them into books, drinking bitter coffee she doesn’t like and speaking languages that trip her up with complex structures. it’s easy to dive back into her books, to seek out libraries in every stop but that’s not the point of this. wiping out her savings, losing her financial footing – it’s to create something new for herself.
she’s uncomfortable, stealing breadcrumbs from tables and forcing the comfort zone aside every day, but none of that matters. at least, it doesn’t matter anywhere near as what it should: new things, new is the order of the day, her latest demand from life and as a result she never wakes up in the same city more than three times.
here, she’s flipping the world around everyday: not her language, not her currency.
not her self.