monica byrne

A home without a name.

Last night, I dreamt I couldn’t remember the name of the city where I lived. I felt crazy. How could I have forgotten the place I’ve called home for twelve years? But all I could remember was that it was in the south; and warm, and bright.

I’ve been on the road for two months: Pittsburgh, Phoenix, Baltimore, D.C., Bath, Skye, Cambridge, Rye, Brooklyn, Philadelphia, Annville, and D.C. again. (This picture is of me yesterday, taking shelter from the rain on the porch of the Supreme Court.) Right now I’m waiting for the metro that’ll take me to my car so I can drive home. Durham, of course: that’s the city I live in. I wonder how it’ll feel. I worry that this time I’ve gone and done it, I’ve changed too much.

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