You tell me. A week into work, and everything is somewhat back to normal. I get used to having lunch at appropriate times, and to the necessity of wakefulness in the afternoons. I no longer can venture out during the day to sit at cafes or stand on sidewalks watching the sky dump snow on defenseless mailboxes. Sometimes, this feels right; sometimes, my mind feels like it’s still lingering someplace else. I think of the aisles in the Tokyu supermarket and tomatoes, of oden and cheap delicious ice cream, and of the perfect weather that happens only on vacations, and of songs that had played as buses rumbled along, through little towns and across highways built amidst the mountains and over half-frozen rivers.
