I arrive early to my hotel room, my place of residence until I make time to find a home in Atlanta, and I plonk all my bags down on the carpet, just by the door. Reluctantly, I reach for my bag and pull out my laptop case. As I unzip the case, I walk towards the small table in the corner, with a light beaming into the triangle of the wall.
I grab my Apple MacBook Air, flick open the screen, type in my password and stop for a moment. I am tired. So, tired that my body aches and my shoulder blades feel like I have a knife edged into bone. This is the life of someone who travels.