Stuffing my belly with greasy goodness (eggs, potatoes, toast smothered in raspberry jam) and drinking cup after cup of coffee with extra cream in a little café and watching many bikers pedaling through the breezy sunshine; trying to gather up the resolve to go home and pack up possessions for my move. I think I’m just going to put Sandy Denny singing “Who Knows Where The Time Goes” on repeat, and it will ease me through it. All of my things will be placed in battered boxes, and my little life will be neat, compartmentalized, transported, and started over. And then I will drink revelatory cocktails, will dance around pool tables, will wander through dark alleys rubbing my eyes, tripping over my boots, stumbly, happy, ready to fall asleep for one last time on my apartment floor with all of my clothes on.