In England now, in Oxford. Going to school here. Reading in the Bodleian. Feeling sloppy and crass compared to the British. Stumbling some, wandering some.

I think, world, you are larger than anticipated.

Every choice made feels more pronounced. The time is short for all the 'opportunites'. And now is the time that certain uncertainties and sadnesses have chosen to surface...? They would pick now, wouldn't they?

Sadly happy. A happy sad? A bit embarrassed about those words. Like I'm trying to catch my breath. All the time.

This is the view from my window: They are filming a movie outside; the road is blocked off. An actor stumbles out of a blue door across me and hails Hitler, a lilting, fake drunk buried in wool and bathed in projector light. They are here because it's beautiful and old. Old streets with old oils of palms pressed deep into the sidewalls. The actor can make history here because there have been many to sink and stain the concrete. He can be a hundred if he wants to and still young and drunk and political.

You live in a city and begin to find nature strange, even when it's manicured. I am looking out of a bay window and finding it strange to be three stories above the scene. Will I look across my steet from a screen someday, and believe him as he leans his body back with the bottle? Will I be convinced, in my memory, that I felt more belonging here? Will I feel more belonging here? Looking inward. He's come out the door again now, and this time, his hand stays longer in the light.