Indigo creases stacked straight with hatred because I can’t afford them. Slim waists fold the tasteful cotton tops with tags spendy, I remember my bank account as drained. I wonder when it will all come back.

The house shakes. Jim the mistake-taker has a lot of mistakes to take from here, when he’s not driving his Mercedes-Benz around 21st Street, golfing in Arizona heat. Outside he’d greet me on the sidewalk too often, asking if there was any mistakes for him to take from 604. No, I’d say. I wondered when he’d go away.

I’d flip a page, and every trail slid into it’s disposition: San Francisco in her pearls, Jónsi leaking from sound, Charmin in the bathroom. I smiled. It was all coming and going collectively, amends and fractures like ebb, and flow. Weeks away I’ll be bag-packing the wall scraps and knick knacks I’ve arranged in my place, dismemebering nine months of tacit solitude. It’s gone, everything—and I no longer have to wonder. I’m going away.