The city gets unraveled in the latest of night, shrugs without scrutiny. I lay in bed wide awake in the strange hours the other night wide eyed and fearful of earthquakes, my bed shakes and my water glass surges when MUNI lumbers down Haight Street and the wraiths are riding.

Suddenly I am mortally afraid, all these years without fear save the firey car crash, and suddenly there are cancers blooming and joints in peril and crossword puzzles to solve to stave off the onset of alzheimers and -- and.... I have always trusted in my Scotch hardiness, farthest thing from a germaphobe you could encounter... And fucking whiskers, what the fuck is that about. Nobody told me about that.

I am bored and listless and alternately antsy and chewing on the upholstery. I want to kick and scream and throw tantrums, I want to have sex with nameless men, I want to flail, I am already floundering. I want to reneg on my decision to leave, I want to crawl into warm, dark place and hibernate. I want to go already, I hate the in betweens.

I really hate stasis... Should I say that I had been in stasis and now I am in flux, I hate it, I hate it, makes my skin crawl, makes me skritchy and makes me want to flout convention and holler and bash in my stupid computer waiting for the stupid emails and the stupid phone calls that lodged in some transitory purgatory.

And behind all this futile champing at my imaginary bit, there is all the history and the shipping containers of want. Want and desire and victorian romance, but my dance card is empty and my horizon is strictly empty.