My family travels to London
while I remain home
traveling inward,
taking day hikes along
trails of nondescript lines,
hampered by busy streams
of self-critical dialog,
no map, but driven by
a vague hope of reaching
some heretofore undiscovered plateau.

All alone
I'm sensitive now
to every shadow
and dark corner
of my empty house.
I talk to myself
and imagine things,
of course,
but becomming an experienced
inner tourist means
I keep practicing,
making drawings,
just sitting,
taking in the sights.

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