Like a shift worker my days and nights are flipped. Twenty one hours on a plane should equal four a.m., yet the sun lurks in the sky, chasing away the mind's response to sleep. 

Rides on the Shanghai subway grow longer. Our minds stumble and refuse to switch trains on time. 

I wake up at strange hours, convinced nights are afternoons. Have I slept eighteen hours? Our windowless room offers no clues.

We force ourselves to walk from sunup to sundown. 

Struggle subsides days later. We are ahead of the curve on Asian days while Canada still lives out yesterday.