Minneapolis/St. Paul

Last night was one of those exciting, blurry nights that, upon recollection, seems hazy and lucid, like a smeary oil painting or crayon sketches on waxed paper. There were painfully loud bands playing screeching, slurred chords, pictures taken in golden bathrooms, cigarette burns on arms and shoes removed. An after-bar taco stop was made and I drew a big, angry face on the table and ate chips and salsa until my nose ran and my stomach felt funny.

Afterward, as 4:00 a.m. crept up behind me and I drove my truck down lonely, suburban highways, I thought about how much I'm going to miss this place when I leave. It's a frustrating town full reclusive people who would rather stay inside nestled under piles of blankets than face the biting winter wind and sunless skies, but when they do finally throw on their wool coats and warm up the car, it's always completely worth it. We have magical, electric nights that go on forever and result in emotional hangovers and dizzying crushes and I fall asleep with the afterimage seeping into my dreams, confusing what really happened with the stories my imagination creates. It's going to be hard to leave this all behind for three months, but I know it's something I have to do and something that I won't regret no matter how much it could hurt.