The day disappears in a mess of boxes, labels, plans. At ten p.m., you run out of packing tape, and the grace of a New York RiteAid is not lost on you. The street is busy, warm but no longer overbearing. People of the East Village are living their lives. Bless this opportunity. She asks if you are sad to leave this home, and you cannot find the feeling, though you've looked. You empty the bourbon, the nice one that you had been saving, because what's to save now. Tomorrow the movers come. Soon, soon, the horizon lies at your feet. You put the lid on the typewriter. Hold a hand to the exposed brick fireplace that no longer works except to whisper of lives past.
You were a good home.
I'm sorry I wasn't good while I was with you.
But I'm better for having been here.
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