A couple weeks ago, I was sitting at one of Madrid's many spectacular cafés with three friends and I asked them that cliché question that everybody hates, but which I think is worth contemplating from time to time: What would your ideal life look like?
In my lowest times, I've always turned to music. It lifts me up, consoles me, gives me perspective, and it often articulates my emotions better than I can. On at least one occasion, it has literally saved my life.
Epilogue: For the first time in my adult life, I didn’t have a goal. I wanted a lasting relationship, a reason to stay, a purpose for a life in Brooklyn.
Chapter X: The progression of the day had brought us together, our legs touching as I argued with myself whether or not I should kiss her. It seemed a foregone conclusion, but I’d been wrong before.
Chapter IX: Allston is the cirrhosis-stricken liver of Boston’s college nexus. Calling it rat-infested inaccurately characterizes the natural ecosystem.
Chapter VIII: She held out a box cutter. “Take this. Just in case.” The darkened St. Roch neighborhood was no place to walk without protection.
Chapter VII: It was mid-January and I had returned to familiar territory: jobless and scrambling to put together enough income to make it another month.