Life has become deceptively simple. Soon the rhythm of work, rest, and sleep will be natural to me, more entirely than ever before. I work on the 21st floor, and it is grey. The printer is next to the window, and I stand waiting for ink to make numbers to make sense, but the blinds have been shut for the last three days.

Walking (and the acquisition of ever more belongings) has become the highlight of my days. I walk to the bus or the dirty retro subway that is somehow less revolting than the dirty newer subway. I walk to shops, I walk to the bank, I walk to my front door.

I desperately miss cutting my own hair.

I miss trees, and the real smell of morning, and never knowing what new adventure the day will hold.

I want my girls back.

This life is not full enough to make me happy.