This is the chance you take when you burn your house down, when you get off of the ship and sink your boots into the sand of a new world.
I have a picture of Venice as my wallpaper on my work computer. I float off into a montage scene of me living in that picture: me reading Dickens in a little Italian cafe, sunlight pooling over the pages; me riding a gondola down a rusted canal. How do you fulfill an addiction that draws you out of your life?
You will hide it under euphemisms. You will hide it under bulky sweaters and Miller Lite. You will hide it under poetry.
Remember last winter? Remember when everything looked like it was on its last leg before spring came like an explosion? You never left the apartment all winter. You barely walked me.