A man gets into a cab at the airport, but he isn't certain where he's going. He just disembarked a flight from Italy, landing back in his home country as before.
As before.
As the cab draws up, he realises there isn't an as before; the "as before" he knew can't happen now. However, what should or could happen instead is equally obscure. All he knows is that he can't go back.
It is less what actually happened whilst he wandered the foreign streets, with unknown languages blistering across sun-soaked alleys. It is more that while he walked he found himself staring at the face of time, almost holding it in his hands. The intimacy astonished him. Time had become frighteningly present; no way to lose it or be distracted from it.
As the hot Ligurian days passed by in a slumber, a lightness replaced the gaping horror and with lightness, the suggestion of possibility; possibility that he didn't have to be the way he was before. It seemed that only absent mindedness had kept him there for so long.
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