30

It occurs to me that I may have had this life thing all wrong all along. It is so easy to listen to Voices of Reason, to march to the same beat, the same tune, to build your ideas on what life is about off somebody else's blueprint. 

Here's the thing; you do not care about success, about money or climbing the career ladder as very far as your particular assets allow. That was never your thing, but you've started to believe it is... That you are at an age now where you can no longer fuck around.

You have been mistaken.

You want to write, you want passion and madness, ecstasy and alcohol, you want life, and you miss New York. 

So I propose this. If, by the time you read this, you do not have an inspiring man by your side, a finished manuscript in your drawer, some sort of functioning madness in your spine... Get your shit together, save your pennies, and go back Home to New York.

I don't care how you think you are old; I don't care how you were unhappy and unsuccessful there as well. You still loved New York every day you were there; you still had purpose and remembered what it was to be inspired. 
And if you haven't found that in Stockholm yet, fuck it. 
Just go.

Worry about the Rest later. 
This is your life, even at 30, 
even at 40. 
I want you to live it all you can.