Domesticity for the average seafaring salesman.

It feels good to be back. To be at my desk, reading up on electric field lines and magnetomotive force, with Ornette blowing on his sax. Feels good to tilt my head back, to cross my arms behind my head and think about how I had solved that last calculus problem in a jiffy. Feels good to look sideways at the nightlamp and reassure myself that it is still there, flickering. Feels good to write on napkins in restaurants, feels good to discuss Proust with my physics professor, to debate whether Nietzsche really meant what he said with the owner of the oft-visited hookah joint, to admire Schopenhauer's beautiful writing style in my underwear. Feels good that my present squeeze is twirling a particularly long strand of her hair between her fingers and doing a Cirque du Soleil with her tanned legs in her bed as she speaks into the mouthpiece. Feels good to have my appetite back and to feel the steel give way under my fingers. Feels good to bring novelty to the kitchen table again. Not that I have a kitchen table in my hostel room.