I love waking up as early as I want and padding through an empty, echoing apartment, putting a pot of Turkish coffee on the stove, and watching the pink glow of the dawning sky reach the exact shade of the flowers on the mimosa tree outside the kitchen window. I love filling up the tub and reading, half-immersed in hot water, until the steam warps the spine of my book. I love losing track of meal times and grazing on fruit, bread, and beer at odd hours of the day, standing over the sink to catch errant juices and crumbs. I love spending days in a wife-beater and a pair of torn boy's boxers with the words "Stocking Stuffer" printed on the back, not ever folding my clothes or cleaning up my tea cups, and generally living like a child whose "Home Alone" dream was centered more on the voicing of an elaborate internal monologue than on wild parties or potato chips and ice cream at midnight.
But the thing that I love probably the most is falling asleep every night to the plaintive metallic hum of the subway train, a sound I instantly associate with childhood summer trips between Lutsk and Kyiv, the rocking rhythm of the top bunk, and staying up as long as my eyes would let me to watch the sleeping Western Ukrainian countryside rush past the grimy train window. These are all only child things, moments and memories that get collected with the same loving care as delicate sea shells or semi-precious stones, and it's hard to pay the proper reverence to them when you're living with someone else. No matter how low-key, the presence of others always somehow interferes with my sensory organs, scrambling the signals I spent so much time cultivating. Ten tons of shit scraped aside, I'm glad I got this chance to fine-tune.
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