Belgrade. March 7, 2019.

Sitting in my room, in a classic old 19th-century hotel that was commandeered by Milosevic back in the day, trying to take it all in and get it all down. Others have gone to bed, I’m writing and listening to a saved Spotify playlist on portable Bluetooth speakers. John Mayer’s “I Guess I Just Feel Like,” somehow appropriately thoughtful, hopeful, reflective, melancholy. Traveling long distances to regions you’ve never seen, listening to languages you can’t even begin to approximate, always peels back skin-thick layers covering your senses and pours technicolor into your mind. I should always be this alive.

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