I trod past the mountains of Glasgow, searching for virtues in berry brûlée and lukewarm tea. Days I’m a passenger navigating nature and its juxtaposed architectures. Falling in love with strangers that pass me by in family-owned delis. Nights I slump over a book and read a chapter or two with a glass of whiskey in hand. Wondering if I’m someone’s stranger. When the clock resets and the moon is high, I go back to the hostel in which I lie. I lie awake in my own desolation, hoping tomorrow’s endeavors have virtues for me. Scotland has been kind to a stranger in its city.