On the plane back home. There is a safety instruction video showing a men’s football team (it might be Manchester United, I’m not sure, I’m not the least interested in football, or in the bodies of men playing football, so I don’t really find it essential to remember) playing with the safety devices accompanied by a song whose only text (repeated over and over again) is: We are Turkish Airlines. We are globally yours. The flight will take almost twenty-four hours, including a stop in Istanbul. I’m exhausted. It feels like I’m leaving the world. Or like I’m going back to the world. To what I’m used to. It feels like I’ve spent the past week in another sort of reality than what I’m used to. I have a feeling of unreality, I do no longer know what is real.