It’s finally the end of the day. I’ve gotten quite a lot done, and now I’m home relaxing on the couch, looking for what to read and listen to tonight. I did battle with what seemed to be a roach in the kitchen — I barely flinched when it skittered out from the gap in the wall behind the sink. The apartment does seem to be opening at the seams somewhat — in every room, the baseboards slowly detaching wider and wider from the floor, cracks opening in the wall paint at the vertices, caulk vanishing in the shower, tile gapping against the wall, thin empty spaces wherever one thing meets another. I wonder if it’s just that it takes some time to notice things like this, or if the house really is slowly coming apart as things dry and condense, materials aging, eroding back into the prewar bone structure of this apartment. Curious. I’m not sure how much longer I want to live here. In the city, in this particular apartment. In this country, even. The it’s past time for me to live in another country again. The itch is starting to grow again — to make a life anew in another part of the world, to challenge myself and spread my wings and seek another pace of life.