From a quieter than usual northside cottage.

Saturday night found us reclined around a good-smelling fire in my backyard, drinking Malt Liquor and toasting a farewell to Taylor and Juliette.

After the inevitable "we better get going..." I got quiet and misty-eyed and could only choke out a "we'll hold your spot in Richmond until you get back," and a few minutes later we sent them off to Philadelphia. I found myself spending the next few minutes trying to recall what Taylor wrote about me leaving Fredericksburg in his zine, and all I could remember was the last sentence, which was something like "and we can't seem to remember why she left."

I guess that's the thing. As we all shoot off in a million directions and find what it is we're being pulled towards, we're pulled apart from each other, and it's hard for anyone to understand why.

Richmond misses you.