But those times are past. They won't come back, and my tingling tired mind can no longer bear to dwell on them. This melancholy won't leave, my longing for things long gone only brings me down daily, dripping my eyes and dragging my feet. So I chain smoke and drink and listen to Tom Waits, excusing my behavior on the grounds of being A) young and B) an artist.

Soon, I think, soon I will feel like I'm making the most of my life, wringing out every last drop of vibrancy from this city. But the terrible time-old truth is that I am rusty, my soul is old, and I have never felt at home. Anywhere.

***