The Alacrity Of A Headache

You arrive. It is late afternoon. You are a stranger in familiar places. You are confused, hurt; a little lonely. Travelling always has the pay-off of coming home. There is acceptance of this behind the eyes; deep in the skull. Deeper than the deepest ocean. There is some pleasure in the recollection of memories: stretches of the river, the same noises, these things. But you have a yearning. Aching for the place you have just left; yet you do not want to be there either, not in the way you have just been, with the things you have seen, suffered. It is a riddle. One that only sleep will answer. The quiet decimation of memory. . . . . Take four of these. They will help.