i'm still in between it all.
not there anymore, not home yet, right now sitting at a 10p per minute computer terminal at london city airport, waiting for my flight to frankfurt.

it's only been a week since i took off for montreal, and it seems like so much longer, because so much happened. right now the entire trip feels quite surreal though, too - doubtlessly partly because i am sleepfucked and the lights are bright round here, but also because it was so extreme in a way. did it really happen? did i really fly over the atlantic, just because?

and what now?
one thing is sure: beginning. no end.