The orange orb with russet edges burned and flared in the sky, sinking to the earth and melting to liquid gold, to be re-smelt for the next day and the day after that. To be reborn.
My lids slid close, my body congealed into a boneless, tired mass – clinging to the seat . The plane encased us all, a mausoleum to a new time zone, an untrampled place.
I twisted, moaned and turned into that black space that is sleep. Of lively pantomimes, ghostly faces, echoing laughter and technicolor scenes so sharp, I can rub them between my fingers – in dreams.
In the kaldesicope of my subconscious, a feeling, maybe even a tingling of knowing prodded me. My eyes unsealed to a Moscow morning, to the green and glorious. A clear, open slate.
To journeys. Big and small. Aesthetic and ascetic. To flux. The thrill.
My trip to London was made possible by the support of Vayama.