Spent the last of New York's good weather in Los Angeles, hiking and drinking and making art in the sunshine. I spent a lot of time alone, and a lot of time with strangers, and a lot of time with Cara. I was mostly moving, moving, moving, between Airbnb’s while my mind jumped from one photograph to the next. Not too fast to second guess, but enough to leave me sleepless. I feel ageless, feel seventeen years old. Up at the crack of dawn until the crack of dawn, still not tired but losing my mind a little. I can’t stop making strangers apartments my home. After a week I know how I like to arrange the pillows on their couches. I make a routine around their neighborhood. I hang my coats next to theirs and feel a little larger, expanded, like I’ve always belonged here. I spent three days in Las Vegas drinking wine from a box and sneaking into pools and not gambling. Three days gawking at the gaudy lights and laughing. Nonstop until I was back at JFK, twice as much luggage as I’d left with. It’s cold in New York.
