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.