The world is turning over again, despite our best efforts. It's bright in the morning, lighting up the dead tree under the window. Soon, everything will bloom. I have already lived in this apartment longer than I have lived anywhere else in New York, longer than I have ever lived in a single place other than the house in which I spent most of my childhood. It is strange, still, to experience things from the same place again and again, to recall a previous year that took place in the same rooms, the same bed, the same cats and sleep schedules and google calendars, without any fault line of disaster or sea change delineating one year from the next. It makes me feel grateful, and it makes me feel old.