Battered by Travel I type incoherently

It is certainly a strange thing to leave home. Almost as strange as going back. When we leave home it is a revolt into nothing, a hopeless leap into an unknown. After a time, however, the unknown becomes known and more importantly becomes home. We dive headfirst into the dark future and let our eyes get accustomed until it seems very much like the present seemed. Going home is a Re-revolt, Devolution, going from light to light. By my estimation change is often regarded as an introduction. Commencement, if you will. We shake the dust off our sandals and keep walking. It is a strange feeling to return to the old dust. After a year away from home with every week laying some new spike strip or revealing a new golden ticket, I feel quite unprepared for 3 months of quietude, of constancy, of Maryland. But then again if this feeling is strange, it is also new. Strange means little more than unfamiliar, and if my thoughts of home are that of relative unfamiliarity, then going home is new. It is unfamiliar simply because of my recent falling out with familiarity. Home is completely familiar and yet not, like an old picture or forgotten shoes. A general expectation that the shoe will still fit holds at once an insult to your growth and a compliment to your constancy. It is difficult to close out this entry. I can’t write a conclusion because I have no conclusion. I can’t close out Moscow any more than I can prepare myself for Maryland its all strange, all new, all commencement, and all unfamiliar.