I've been living in my own painfully/carefully/poorly fabricated world so completely that it's odd fitting into other ones. The first day of 2014 I spent in abandoned homes in the south, went to the airport in the middle of the night twice to say goodbye, I had awful dreams and remembered that I still have the gauze bracelet from the spool that bandaged my knee last summer. When I collect stupid things that's the way I know that I care about something I guess. I woke up too late on the last day of the gathering I was at to say goodbye to dozens of people that I care about which brought me back to reality. Roadtrip back to the north was slow-going with stops almost every hour and I stayed awake the entire time with no voice left. Stayed in Virginia for a while, slept on a blue pillow in a suburb where the green garbage bins lining the street all had a number corresponding to the house address stamped on them. I still have the tag on my suitcase that says the I live on Classon Avenue, the one I wrote down that I had never seen before. Had to climb into the bus luggage compartment to get my suitcase and the door closed on me. Arrival to New York is just how I think of it: do it you own damn self. The subway car floors are covered in salt so they're a slashed grey rather than a speckled black. I watch a plane fly south from Laguardia over my apartment on my roof every two minutes. My grandmother used to have the television on all the time- said that the sounds of people talking made her feel less lonely. I found a twenty-part video series a boy made of himself Skypeing with a girl that was far away that he liked and I started putting it on as I was doing things in my apartment- in the end he ended up cutting off all communication with the girl because he had some sort of mission I forget, but he made a big deal about it. I got really lonely and self-aware because I had no responsibilities for a while. I started listening to the same three songs on repeat and was afraid to sleep. I've started realizing how much of a waste of time drinking is. I said on accident "maybe he thinks of me but I don't know if he's seen my bedspread" and for some reason I thought it was really poetic and I don't remember when or where but I wrote it down in my diary, ha. I spent a lot of time with people that lived less than a few blocks away from me and I didn't like at all that I was doing it mostly because it was convenient. I think about the people living in the basement of my building and how the subway runs along the street, falling asleep to the sound of the trains passing by instead of my neighbors' phone conversations might be nice, would make me more focused on habitually moving instead of imagining my own made up conversations.