Boston, I miss your narrow streets and your frenetic, crackling static. Boston, I miss the tissue and organs shredded between your bricks and cobblestones. Boston, I miss the heavy flop of the hospital floor, collapsing on your slow inhale.

After nearly a year away from Boston’s heavy fog and Atlanta’s weighty interstices, I have finally returned to the subtle madness that got me there and back in the first place. Records by would-be shock troops and settling punk rockers; poetry, theory and other instructions with no application; long and inexplicably tearful drives. Yesterday was spent on the telephone with friends from only a few months ago, realizing how far apart we’ve grown in our maudlin pragmatism, and quietly wondering how much longer we might last. This evening has been spent playing at resignation, writing fragments of letters: phrases and images, but nothing so decisive as an outline or a salutation. So I can look forward to six more days of this saturated insanity, followed by six more months of its denial.

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