The room is on the second floor (it is the second floor actually), there used to be souvenirs there but we painted over them all in one fell swoop as if nothing had ever occured up there (suits me just fine) and now it is a work studio with a bed somewhere and that's how it was back there too... The space itself is cold and narrow but the atmosphere adds to the makeshift situation; it's an art-ready shelter. The remainder of my belongings are on the other side in clean boxes ready to be picked up for the next move. I go back there still, often and sometimes by myself, back to say hello, back to show I haven't really left, walking past the building knowing that we've won our loss, so to speak, and it's something I take comfort in despite any animosity the distance could've generated (nothing a little time and effort can't fix) -- there is no one there to replace us and no one will ever get to experience the view as it was then. It is still home somehow, locked outside but it's still home. And then there's the home away from home. Until then.