The cabbie gets lost on his way to the party.
I know two of the fifty. 
The honor is going down south to find herself, in either Savannah or LA
I end up drinking a beer I didn’t show up with.
I hear Lorde and Beyonce.
I’d be glasses twins with several guys had I worn mine.
There is an absurd amount of plaid.

Something tells me I need to get home to write this down.
Something tells me I need to get home period..

Nadia is drenched in satin and velvet, drinking red wine from a gold solo cup.
She looks lovely as always.
The conversation is smaller than most talking.
I wonder what this would be like without a buzz.

A group of mildly creative twenty somethings, hanging out talking about themselves.
I should be home writing?
More pretentious than this scene.

I’m curious as to what blurs the line between observer and participant, and if I’ve gotten there.

When I get home, I look at the painted road map of Boston, and can’t help but be reminded that
the only thing that city ever wanted of me was to be my home.
And Chicago?
No sure what it wants yet. It’s overtly coy about the whole thing.


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