It has been 100 days since I changed my life. Sold all my things and took off for the coast full of books and seawater. There are hills here for walking and fish for throwing. There is coffee for drinking and more reading than I can achieve. Words will be written out here too in a tiny loft apartment full of brick and warmth. I told the city I would return. I uttered my intention in the stacks of Powell’s among the smell of paper years ago. Now I sneak into tiny alcoves to meet other writers to whisper about the privilege to live in this place of input. This is my kind of success.