I wanted in some part to be away from home long enough to know what things actually mattered to me as identified by their absence. So far: utter darkness for sleep. A blanket or duvet and sheets. A window or good fan in the bathroom, and heat. Good toilet paper. Small things mostly. I need a lot more silence than I imagined. I enjoy my own company more than I remembered. I don't read as much as I thought. Now I am in the mountains, breathing air that smells variously familiar (Iike California, like Greece) or new to me, and with people who are similarly familiar or new, though nothing human is alien to me, and I am the most alien. I am reminded now that I am a city mouse and an indoor cat, fond of foods that are easy for me to find and require little work, of being stroked affectionately in front of fires, of smooth floors and furniture upon which to curl; that I like a human world even when the humans populating it can baffle me. I am mostly happy, mostly sleeping, mostly nourished, mostly liking where I am.
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