When the border guard glared at us, I stuck my finger into my hair.
My hair looked at the uniform. The uniform was over-exposed.
And so, we could go on. And we went on. There was little leeway between borders. Just enough to be high-spirited for a time. A brief time. To roast a pig on the riverbank. Or to run towards the sky on dried wheel tracks. Then they reared up again. And time trickled away in habituation. Departure to the left, arrival to the right. And the other way round as well.