as I sleep I write this to myself

I've survived the transatlantic flight, and now the nightly tidal wave of jetlag threatens to pull me under. Just barely keeping my head above water for most of the evening, and finally sinking below the surface, taken down hard for ten straight hours. It's the sleep of the dead. I wake up to an unfamiliar hunger, and I'm pretty sure I had a dream about feeding jellybeans to Ben Kingsley. Belfast is a cold, ungracious place seemingly year around. It's that bizarre little British thumbprint in the North of Ireland that never made very much sense to me at all. And so it begins, but today is a new day, in a new place, and although I feel turned inside-out, I think it will all be ok.