When I woke up in Guadalajara for the first time, Pepe had raised the shades and prepared the coffee and it was three o'clock in the afternoon. The unmooring of ordinary chronology was a sensuous delight.

Also delicious to me are those occasions when, while traveling and sometimes even while at home, I awake in the night and--for a long moment that I, reveling in it, try to protract--I lie there not knowing how the bed is oriented within the room where I am sleeping or, even more deliciously, not knowing where the room is, where I am at all. I lie there in an utterly mysterious darkness, my location unknown and irrelevant, utterly comfortable, and slip down again into the void of sleep without bothering to make the effort to place myself. Off the clock, off the map, wholly unfettered by the strictures of the familiar: this is where I have felt most at home.

In my element: running into the pitch blackness with the wind on my face.