A writing day squanders itself around your shoulder blades. Work saunters in, a life saunters in, you spend precious minutes looking at apartment listings in parts of Brooklyn you thought you'd never age into. Spring has broken itself into the community garden across sixth street, suddenly it bathes in hues of green and sunshine. You wonder if you are counting down minutes until farewells, if you would do best to absorb every blossoming bud like it is the last. You are too dulled inside to give in to your own nostalgic tendencies.
Look at each object in your home and wonder what could be thrown away. The West beckons you, the change beckons you, until one night you stand hunched over dishes, suds in your hair and pink dish gloves on your hand, thinking I would miss this plate if I went. You are an addict to change, but not all of the molecules work in tandem.
The feelings that will catch us are not always immediately clear.
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