If I seem unhappy with myself, here's a good example of why, a pattern that plays out constantly: now that I have written about moving, have vented, have gotten it all off my chest, I start to think about staying. Time to sleep.
It's almost over. Thanks for your patience. I love you all.
And then I put on a record. Back to NYC again. This is fun. Fuck. House music is my life. Who I am kidding? Just me, apparently.