Plane travel is a bit of an anaphora, and the writer decides it’s a fine mind-fuck, given the right circumstances. It’s flailing through the sky and wondering about home and mouse poison. It’s impatient comfort getting off. It’s wishing for a Montreal snow storm out the window. It’s getting on the S-Bahn S9 and back heading into Neukölln, Berlin, home. It’s looking for the cat and finding none of course. It’s whispering Jesco, kitty. It’s a fine night sleep in a double bed that’s not as fine a sleep as a queen size bed with a warm body to pick at in the night. It’s no internet. It’s heating. It’s no gas stove. It’s home. For now. It’s not home. It’s cheap beer. It’s litres of milk for comfort. It’s watching Star Trek like comfort food. A bowl of bacon and crème frische, tomatoes, paprika and kebab seasoning, and hard week old bread softened up in the sauce. It’s comfort food, that don’t work too good. Like watching your home cave in on itself. Watching from a safe distance. Feeling sick on a full stomach.