Not quite.

It's 10:37pm. I'm sitting in my apartment with all three lights on, and it's still pretty dark. But I won't complain because our handbook told us to bring our own lamps for extra light, and I obviously ignored that advice. I guess I just didn't imagine that I would write in my apartment. I imagined writing everything in the library. But that just doesn't happen. Not quite.

It's a Friday night, and I'm working on my draft. Outside, the taxis lay on their horns, and people scream at one another.  Inside, I'm wondering how much more I'll actually accomplish tonight. 

(People--specifically the bar-goers in this neighborhood--yell the weirdest things! I could write entire stories based on the conversations I hear from inside my apartment.) (It's great for eavesdropping!) (Why, again, haven't I written any poems here? I would have some great material!)

As great as these conversations (and sometimes arguments) are, these are the days when I miss the (semi-) quietude of my college town. City-life is fantastic, but I'm finding that, despite having lived in a city for eighteen years, it doesn't quite work for me anymore. But when I think about the fact that I haven't had the same adventure twice here, I remember how great it is to have access to so many excellent things. 

Except quietness. Which is an excellent thing that is hard to find, when you aren't at the library.