Jet-lagged.

When your body thinks it's sleeping time,
your stomach thinks it's feasting time,
your brain thinks it's socialization time,
and your anus thinks it's a trombone.

That is the moment you keep your eyes open.
Reality seems thin, as the air in which you flew.
You wonder while you extend your hand in front of your face,
wonder if you could touch reality, break through and grasp it.

But you can't. You are jet-lagged, and everything seems numb.
Two more hours to go until you sleep.

Neil Geiman smiles at you from the back-cover of "fragile things".
You turn yourself over to the realm of perhaps and maybe,
the realm of dreams and pixies, and the world between words,
there to embark on a journey to the city of slumbering fools.

I am back in Paris, yet home is where I am.