There is a television in front of the fireplace and I am back, living with my parents. I was never good at compartmentalising. When it comes down to fight – march down to the airport and get them to prepare me a private jet plane flight – I sit on the couch writing poetry & ignore whatever is left of the world freeze – I become a sofabed that does not want to change. Clamp shut. Turn into the flat tire that keeps me grounded to the Belgian roads, traffic will come and uproot me. The train does not stop driving. I cannot move. The plane won’t leave with me on it. The news said my lovely flying cans, time machines, still fly out. Holding cargo, bearing cold and empty seats for those who wish to leave. I do not know where it is I’m heading to. That place so many are attempting to escape, we walk in opposite directions but our fates are tied by the same virus. Pandemics of violence. A stranded pirate, without ship. A dog takes place instead of a parrot. I do not live anywhere, hold my treasure map at the ready. I already downloaded the metro app so I could find my way around in a city of millions. In a city that does not know the world as ‘safe’. I have been wishing to travel in time. Take the first plane but somehow I become the dog, I carry the fleas and they chose to lock me up. Sterile, sterilise, stare down. Undo me from me bacteria. But I don’t care. Once I land in cleansed airports, not even the six-hour queues will matter. I cannot wait to spend three weeks in a quarantined hotel room. I cannot wait to reach home.