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The sun around five in the afternoon has this way of hitting my most glamorous and sparkly item of clothing. The sun rays bolt through the window in one awesome and solid beam of light, crashing upon the hundreds of tiny mirrors sewn onto a gossamer piece of black silk. What results is magic; what would be an ordinary room is now a sanctuary of gold flakes and warmth, the stream of sun collides and leaves itself to be thousands of baby beams creating Lilliputian splats of shine, and the mediocrity and chaotic disarray of this room, and indeed of my current life, are masked, if only for a few short minutes until the sun grows tired of its spot and moves on. Good thing is, the sun is a predictable house guest.

This is all a roundabout and irrelevant way of saying, “I’m sorry for not being a travel blog lately”. Life has this nasty habit of getting in the way of things, and I’m not programmed yet to know how to juggle everything at once (Squeaky Robot 2.0 in stores soon).

But exciting things await, I assure you; like a story about the most fearsome metropolis of the Russian Arctic, a tale about one saint’s efforts of building a school in rural Liberia, an adventure in the mythical and mossy green NW, and possibly the greatest photo essay DC has ever seen. Things needn’t be so mediocre if I dream about the world and everything in it, and they needn’t be so mediocre if I transform my bedroom into a golden disco of serenity and glimmering stillness; nothing moves, apart from the dancing dust that flickers and shines as it enters the sun.

In any case, I leave the sequined shirt on the chair; it has no place in a closet.