I am wandering, haphazardly at best, head full of helium and heartbeats running wild to a hallucinatory rhythm. History stares sternly at me, its piercing gaze raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I’ve been here. The soles of my shoes fit perfectly into the craters of footprints left behind in the dirt. Perhaps I’ve just walked the entire planet to escape you, only to return to where I had begun at the end of my cyclical sojourn. I wish I could tuck you away into a password, or a receipt crushed at the bottom of my purse. But you are my white whale, an oasis in a desert. Like a drowning fish, you make me pull my own puppet strings, even when I’d sworn to cut them short. I’m drawn to you, hideously and fatuously, like a wasp is to a beacon. And on some days, some better ones, the clouds seem to morph into the contours of your face, and I laugh from the earth below at how even the skies have a little sense of humour.