He tipped bags onto floors and pulled clothes into piles for the washing machine. He stacked books: old and read; new and for sometime. Notebooks were flipped validating previous thoughts developed in the café in Warsaw. He shredded the no longer required itinerary, dropped a text to the girl from the hotel realising she was crazy. And so was he.
He lay down on the floor and looked up as some early Bowie played too loud in the background. His breathing calmed; the trembling had stopped.
He asked himself: what’s really, really important now?
He had no idea at all.