I'm lonely in a contented, calm, adult, rational way that's foreign, unlike the wild fits of isolation that wrecked me, younger years. The tug of wishing I were somewhere far from here doing something incredible. Of having a backpack weighing me down, a destination lifting me towards somewhere, something. Hopping across Manhattan from one shitty exurb to another isn't enough. How can I be on top of the world on Sunday, and in it's grimy gutter, of 9 p.m. screenglare and wordfill by Friday. The loneliness of writing in unpublished, never-to-be-published drafts of a half-defunct, go-nowhere poetry blog your two best friends and girlfriend temporarily, sometimes read. Drinking mint tea while my three roommates sleep, indifferent about potentially waking up the older asian girl who hasn't fucked in years who shares my room, glaring at the screen, or it glaring at me, until sometime after nine and one 3 hour nap already packed away, when I'll x out tabs and close this pernicious oyster that saps my energy, and read a bit in the dim spill of light from the bathroom, listen to distant sirens and think about the madness not just near here in the projects, unspeakable madness I'll choose to tune out, but a few miles away in the most famed and fabled and thus underwhelming city I'll ever live in.