All is quiet, still, cool, dark. You sleep until mid day, the phone incessantly buzzing trying to wake you but you are indifferent to its lure, you are a million miles away and only slowly making your way back. How strange to have a fixed address, I putter around making coffee in a quiet kitchen, take long showers, marvel at silence. I ran up and down unknown hills, stopping to look at crocus blooms and seas of daffodils in sunshine; the birds chirp and everything feels like spring in that way that New York never remembers to. The bus careens down snowy mountain passes; they send pictures and I don't know what anything means yet. I walked around a neighborhood market earlier and it was the most normal thing I'd done in ages.
But normal only pays the bills, it doesn't set your heart on fire.
And all you want to do is burn.
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