nothing seems real, not the sights of places already seen so many times, not the places and the people left behind, not the bagels or the cockroaches or the hot, hot sunday sun, not the tornadoes and the music, not the bridges or the books or the tourists that look at me like i'm meant to be here, not the film sets or the cat markets or the singers on the subway, not the stories behind people's faces, not the broad streets or the roads that are hilly like rollercoasters might be, not the excitement and the confusion and the people and the noise and the unreality of reality.

not even the memories. berlin and kent and london.