A dog slept in the middle of the road.
A tuk tuk wheeled round in the middle of the street so that a lady in a flowered blouse wouldn't have to move to alight it.
A blond man took a photo of a beige, utterly usual van before climbing in.
Today dogs were fighting somewhere across the street when I woke.
Today I am wheezing from the smoke of this place that I love.
Today I will be able to see some of the mountains, but not all.
Today I start writing again, I suppose.
Today I am wearing lipstick, because I am too old to be unremarkable.
Today I am wearing glasses and not contacts.
Today my Lao wasn't good enough on the first try.
Today the birds are chirping—there are so many more birds now.
Today I saw the old cafe owner who can't comprehend that there are foreigners who don't speak french.
Today I will try to believe that my stories might be worth telling.
Today I will try to find them. Stories. What's a story? Where are they?
Today I saw a Lao woman with a pale, round face and thought that I have no idea of her life.
A waiter brings me my food. I don't know where he lives, what language he speaks at home, whether his home has a dirt or concrete floor. Do I ask?
Today I must rent my bicycle again. I know what their house looks like, at least.
Today is rice soup and lime and pepper.