Out of Office auto-reply
The city grows tired, and so do we. We are dealing with dead-end problems, and we solve them by leaving.
We fly to places where we need a phrasebook to buy a thin plastic bag full of apricots.
Entire countries that spring out of the desert; ominous mangrove forests; fields framed by trees that hang heavy with ripe fruit; cities that breathe dust, pests, booze and discarded newspapers; beaches where we stand by the edge of the water like frightened animals; hotel rooms in which we lead temporarily lazy existences; hideouts that buy us time to think and rethink and rethink and rethink until we're too exhausted to think and resign to booking flights back home.
The stories we'll bring back will later be edited to be an inch more hilarious, dangerous and daring. We'll try to impress our lovers who return to us with our wild tales, deep tans and travel scars. We'll try even harder to impress the ones who don't.
In a few months, we'll only remember the superficial details and the confessions we wrote in our diaries when we were blinded by the same scorching sun.