Toro

I am Jill's china shop.

I am Jack's bull.

Don't act all shocked. I never claimed to be able to keep things intact.

Writing this in the last night of the last day of the last week of the last month in the best place I've ever lived. All windows and quiet and fog, just a few blocks before the avenues start in earnest. This is the Sky Palace.

It's important for you to know that before this apartment I've never stayed anywhere longer than 18 months. I get claustrophobic and nervous and disappointed that I haven't bothered to hang any art or buy proper cookware and then I leave. I start again somewhere else thinking it will be different.

It is not.

Wherever I go there I am. Right?

Jack's china shop. Jill's bull.

I spent a lot of today thinking about the things I've wrecked and why I wrecked them. I've lived a pretty careless life, it turns out. My bulletproof affect and innumerable contingency plans give me a false sense of security, but do me no good at all when I'm broken down to pieces and actually need to fall back on them.

Tonight I mourn. I recognize the fact that after 12 years in this city there isn't a single person I can call on to have one last glass of champagne while we look out at the fog. Not a soul to cradle mine while I lay on the couch surrounded by these heavy boxes. No one to marvel at the fact that without curtains, this place never really goes dark.

But I go dark. I go dark all of the time. There just really isn't anyone around to notice.

Jill's china shop. Jack's bull.

I crash again. And again. And again.