I woke up to the coolness of an LA morning. I open the windows, getting snippets of the opera singer next door. My mind is a jumble of the dream memories, pavement, deserts, a bus. My skin is dry from the heat and traveling. My purple has faded into a fuscha. I'm thinking about Chicken John and his untouchable spotlight. I'm back in the comfort of my office. My Brazilian Visa paperwork reminds me of an errand I must do today. It's good to be home.