I am hanging in the balance, as the archetypal Dylan once sang. Posturing over the edge and flirting with the idea of what's to come, the culmination of madness in one hand, the grip of uncertainty in the other. Strangely, it is a comfortable fear, a white fear like the noise Delillo writes about. It is a fear I have often dealt with, and, inevitably, have always come to terms with.

Years ago, before I started earning my living as a writer, I wrote those words to a friend. I had just finished grad school and was about to leave New York. The letter goes on:

I bought a one-way ticket to California today. I am not sure what it means in any sense of it, just that I better have my stuff packed up and ready to go before the plane takes off. The paradox of my present is bewildering to say the least: closure and beginning intertwined. Of course, this should be understood by now; that is the nature of all things. There is always, always this duality: silence and noise, clarity and confusion, hate and love.

I only ended up staying on the West Coast for about three months before coming back and getting a full-time magazine job that I've kept until now. In retrospect, the tone of my letter is rather overwrought. But I was much younger back then, when things seemed to matter more and I tried a lot harder. Anyway, to get to my point, I am leaving New York again, and quite frankly, I am, and have been, at a loss for words. However, I still have about a week left here. Maybe something will come to me.