Night:

When I breathe, eat, talk, forget, remember, and sleep.

I breathe the crisp, welcoming, familiar Brooklyn air, swirling with bits of student laughter and Starbucks wafts, wind from behind bicycles and sighs from the swaying ginko trees.

I eat immediately. Vegetables and carbs, full cartons of baby tomatoes, quesadillas stuffed with sharp cheddar and red pepper and chicken-less chicken. Briegorgonzolaparmeseancreamcheese. Carrot ginger soup and chili, avocados, gazpacho and take-out sushi. A glass of pinot and a few episodes of This American Life.

I talk to whomever is on my mind: Nina, Dad, Hannah, aunts, uncles, old friends, new lovers, new friends, old lovers, from all ends and stretches of my mind, via all forms of communication.

I forget, or try to forget, the emails and the invoices and the contracts and the lists and the meetings. The banter and the formalities and the one-two-three of the day.

I remember everything else. For 6 hours at the end of it all I remember - and finally, I am beginning to be here, and make things worth remembering: plays, cafes, Scrabble in the park, concerts, commiseration over pints, and dancing.