Two months in Germany marks two shooting stars, one ride in an ultralite, one fortress ruins, too many bug bites to count. I am suddenly running low on poetry, running high on wild berries that taste tart like maracuya. I can recall a yesterday where I might have been happier, more comfortable, less thoughtful, and it's hard to distinguish if it was better. Acceptance comes in the form of sleeping on the couch and waking up to night sweats, eschewing sounds that might strike something too familiar, inhaling new smells in hopes of cancelling out olfactory memories. I am an agnostic at war with my Jewish identity and a scientist who can both identify and wish on shooting stars. On the first one, I wished for something new. Maybe it was a mistake.