We've moved in; it's still a wilderness of cardboard, of dishes engrimed by newspaper, case upon backbreaking case of trash fiction, bloated biography, unread poetry and over-thumbed reference materials piled in mountains and mesas throughout; of chairs, inherited from friends, which look even more played-out in freshly painted surroundings; of outlets in funny places; of rooms which don't fit our rugs; of uncurtained windows which blaze with too much light at dawn. It’s a chaos in which the knife you were just holding, those keys you just had made, the cat, your drink, the phone number, the goddamn phone, are never ever where you thought they were.

It's also lovely. Come on over – we're always home.