It’s the last night at 860 Hinman, Apt 711.

It’s more sweet than bitter, though.

The light fixture buzzes, the dirty ceiling fan swirls around as usual.

My palate, quelled from the sparkling rose enjoyed after a Sunday evening shift just downstairs at Campagnola restaurant, also lingers with the taste of lemon tart, both sour and sweetly divine.

One spider, solitarily dangling from its web, rests in the corner of my room. I gaze: a welcomed roommate.

This apartment has been home for the past three years. Within it, passion, lust, anxiety, depression, dance-marathons, and many nights typing away at a keyboard have been passed.

Dreams, awakened. Heart, broken.

Most of all, this space has been both the solitude that has allowed creative endeavors to be cultured, and the space that has poisoned me with the notion of “i-can-go-it-alone”.

The home to return to following solo jaunts around the world, always awaiting me with a familiar smell and comfort. The walls that absorb the sound of my singing, endless hours of rehearsing for an audience that doesn’t exist; not knowing what I’m singing for, but singing anyways..

Tomorrow marks the beginning of a new passage.

Although the feeling of stagnation looms, the cocoon that I will enshroud myself in for the next few months will produce a much clearer path. A nest needing to be built, first and foremost.

Fish don’t even know they’re in water, How do I?