My girl Lynn and her friend Chill passed through the city today. On a whirlwind tour moving her back home to Savannah, GA, she blew in to pick up her stuff and blew right back out. She's headed to Alaska next year, after a bit of time with family and saving cash.
People ask me if I miss it. Georgia, that is. And truth be told, I don't. Not that I have anything against it, I just don't miss it. I have nostalgia, sure. Anytime I smell fresh cut grass, I am seven years old again, a towel slung around my neck, on my banana seat bike headed to swimteam practice. Humidity too takes me back to Georgia. But I don't know if Atlanta has the same sense of opportunity that New York has. The pulse. The madness. The grit. The vibrancy. Whatever you want, you can make it happen in New York. They say that home is where the heart is, which makes my home a one-room East Village studio, complete with 2 windows, a broken buzzer, a couple of lamps, a bed, a futon, a fridge and a happy heart.
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