Dust.

Sometimes I wonder if, like, as much as I loved Texas, what drove me away was the heat, if what will drive me away from New York is the dust, both being persistent and constant and unable to be argued with. But, though I like the poetry of it, it wasn’t the heat that drove me away from Texas, but failure. Failure to make a living, failure to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. In particular, the very showy failure of a love affair, if I can call a complete and convincing self-delusion a love affair. Since I have figured out now what I want to do with the rest of my life and it includes no failed love affairs, I guess I’m stuck here with the dust.

My mind tends to wander when I clean the house.