it’s beautiful. the world. it’s all perfect. as long as you’re a traveler.
but once you put down the map, once you stop getting lost, once you have seen this particular street enough times so you can tell what’s around the corner… it all breaks down.
it’s a sickness, you know?
it’s an addiction
to the unknown
to being so lost in some city and some stranger’s life that you can feel yourself disappear
to diving so deep into the vortex of lights and sounds that you can feel your head spinning
to being so free that you don’t feel the need to be somebody else
and after a while few days twice a year stop being enough
and then… there’s no escape