sixteenth cycling trip

I wrote to Zoli too! The mail even took it!

"When I got home, I realized that I don’t really have a home. What it has made it as such, passed now. Now the house is cold. Frigid. Relationless. Loveless. My home is elsewhere now. Always elsewhere. It’s there, where you are. In Brazil, by the seaside, in the street, in the room, in the snow, beside the road. In heaven. In hell. Anywhere. Everywhere. Just be with me."

When I stuck the envelope down, the address was washed away by a few tears, so once again I inked in the name: Turk.