you’ll see the horrors of a faraway place / meet the architects of law face to face / see mass murder on a scale you’ve never seen / and all the ones who try hard to succeed…
-”Atrocity Exhibition”, Joy Division. 
 
Home is a place to play my vinyl albums and make snarky jokes about reality TV stars.
It has a bed and sometimes cookies. And always pillows. Pillows are a necessary kind of thing.
There’s cigarettes with the option of coffee.
There’s a wall to hang my My Little Pony Christmas stocking on.
Eyeliner and boots and books. Musicals. I don’t believe in using desks for their intended purpose.  
It doesn’t need to stay still. Home is not the building but its contents and residents. There doesn’t need to be any obvious common factor.
It has an outlet so I can charge my phone. Connection to the outer world is critical.
Home is never silent. Silence seems empty.
New York is home right now. More, it contains home; the immediate surroundings being an added bonus. People and noise, the bus that stops under my window at all times, the trees and buildings I can see. The playground across the street that no one seems to go to. There aren’t any swings there so I can’t say the playground is unloved for no reason. Swings are essential to success.

I need to get a course packet before I write anything more. Tomorrow, after lunch, will be a good time for that. I have the feeling I’m going to abuse this journal a great deal and write about pointless things quite often between class assignments.

Time to turn the record over.