Seven miles below me, I can see the world and it ain't so big at all.

I can't sleep but I've learned to wake up early again, I mistake Winter winds for signs of Spring and I'm in love with faked independence.

I emptied my closet this morning and covered the floor with corduroy and flannel and cotton. I've been trying to get rid of half of my stuff and give things away but I'm not succeeding much. I get attached to everything so easily.

Sunday mornings when days become mornings and evenings become days. It's already dark and I'm rearranging furniture and wearing ugly 90's mom-jeans and an ugly beanie and feeling irrationally lonely. The bruises on my legs are starting to fade and I recall the time when I believed that the healing of an injury meant the end of an era. I bet it still does but I'm not aware of it yet.

Lola vs. Powerman & The Moneyground is making me feel like I'm on a journey, a long way away. It's such a cliché but I'm yearning for Berlin in Spring and Southern Europe in Summer. There's a long Winter ahead but it's all going to be alright.

"Winters are always hard"

"But this winter's been treating me quite good."

"No it hasn't. Winters are all always hard. You won't notice it until summer comes, but when it comes, it hits you: how easy everything becomes once it's here."

Learning how to breathe in the midst of Winter and all that's destroying my happiness is hard.

You were a big fish in a small pond, but this here is the ocean and you're drownin'.

Because I love new beginnings and because I hate permanence.

And because my head aches from replacing sleep with phonecalls that are so long and exhausting that they turn my voice into one of a callgirl.