A train pulls out of a foreign station at dusk and you stay on the platform a moment, listening to the rails tick as they cool. Here the Moon falls in the ninth, where the map on the wall and the question too big for one room both live, and your feelings reach instinctively toward the horizon. Travel. Study that catches fire. The long arc of a wondering that opens a window somewhere behind your ribs. A language not your own can calm you in a way your mother tongue sometimes cannot, and a strange city can feel more like home than the street you grew up on. The risk is that you keep gilding the faraway and grow quietly restless with whatever is close, as if wonder only lived past the border. Practice, instead, bringing the wonder back with you. Read in your own language the way you would read in a new one, slow and lit up and willing to be surprised. Your inner life does not widen by distance. It widens by the depth of attention you give, and the familiar turns as astonishing as any country the second you really look.