A hundred white butterflies flutter all around me as I walk toward the cars going to Bomet. My brain knows this is a glimpse of God through nature, a piece of the preciousness that life and sight afford me. But my heart doesn't care, my eyes itch from weeks of exposure to dry-season dust, my chest siezes up as I gag on the brown cloud newly thrown up into my face. There's no power at my office again, the only place I can charge my electronics, and as always, everything goes on as usual, belying the frustration and impatience turning my stomach.

On the car ride to the post office, I have two repeating thoughts: "I want to go home," and, "I'm gonna get there and there won't be power." The fact that these two thoughts play on an endless loop inside my head shows that I spend too much time alone, talking only to myself, my furniture, and my insects. "I want to go home. I'm gonna get there and there won't be any power. I want to email my friends. If I just quit I could talk to them all the time. Oh my God, I'm gonna get there, and there won't even be any power. The whole trip will be wasted. Maybe I'll just sit there til it comes back."

"Maybe I should just go home."

I walk toward the post office as my head starts to ache from the bright sun. Some full-grown man-idiot yells "Chinese," I focus on my own shadow before me, and I try to reassure myself that if the posho mill is running, there has to be power. As I get closer, I hear music, and as I reach the entrance, I see the ceiling lights.

I'm here now, the power's on, the internet's working, and the desire to drop everything and quit has lessened. I've sent my emails and I feel so much better. It's not the act of waiting for replies that kills me, it's keeping all these things I want to say inside and repeating them over and over to myself.