It's been nearly a year. New York has been terrible and beautiful and transformative. I can't even tell you, I don't know how to put the words into sentences that make any sort of sense at all, I just feel like a hurricane has come through and hammered all of my ideas and emotions with five sorts of rains and winds, maybe more than five. Maybe ten or twenty. Maybe everything. It's finally over. Today I woke up with nothing at all to do and couldn't believe how sad I was about it.

Here's a story that I'd like to share: I fell madly in love with a boy, a nineteen-year-old musician, who lived next door to the man with whom I was supposed to be in love, and had a tempestuous three-week romance with him that brought all of my senses back to life after a year of having drowned them in zoloft. I saw my first firefly ever while sitting with this boy in a cafe and was so happy that I nearly cried.

He's gone now. He left yesterday. He decided to go to Iowa because there's harvesting work to be done there. He left his guitar with me. I am going to paint him a picture of fireflies and send it to him as soon as he finds himself a permanent address. I don't expect that to be soon.