I wrote a note and left it on Atlanta's doorstep.
Spiderland is fucking closed. After one last rambunctious gathering, a true party-in-hell gathering, I kicked the vermin from my apartment, finally fulfilled my dream of throwing the television from the window (I did it at 4:37 am, a time I had "statistically determined" best for such activity), and packed up my shit.
I have moved.
I am toying with the idea of not telling anyone where I have gone.
It read, "I am so over you."
The City was getting to me. It was making me feel ... dead somehow. Some might make the argument that it was something else making me feel that way, and I guess we'll see. I am in a new place now, and I don't know where to find the Drugs. For a time, until I meet the Right People, I will be sober ... at least in that respect ... and we'll see if I suddenly miss my old home, and begin yearning for the undying noise of big city living, the constant flow of people, the bright lights and the city nights, and the tragic illusion of standing apart from all of it that came with living in an apartment on the top floor of a very high building...
I comfort myself tonight with bourbon.
If that's a hint, I'll go ahead and tell you that I have never and will never set foot inside Kentucky.
I am surrounded by fresh air and the sounds of cicadas. I hear that, round these parts, they call 'em "tree frogs." Ain't that sumthin.
Nothing can compare to sunset in the mountains, accompanied by bourbon and cigarettes.
Movin' to the country, gonna eat me a lotta peaches.