Atlanta

You are a mystery to me, an incongruous bundle of sidestreets and vaguely recognizable landmarks. You are a conglomeration of one-way streets and pointless stop signs to heed or disregard. You are a passageway of tree-lined veins, carrying beat-up Hondas like off-white blood cells to the heart of town. You are the nearly absolute proliferation of Coca Cola fountains and Braves merchandise. I am Jonah, running from God, and you are the swimming metropolis that gulps me down whole. You are the peer-pressure to form contractions of "you" and "all."

You are the dream job, the inexhaustible fire hydrant sippie cup of new music, old music. Old new music and new old music. You are the job that I love. You are the office, the black leather desk chair in which I camp out until after midnight. Like morse code from another world telling me that everything's OK, I hear your 1s and 0s coming in loud and clear, in that order. David Bowie, My Morning Jacket, The Faint, Ed Harcourt, The Incredible Moses Leroy, The Frames. You are the friends I've made so far. You don't call me to hang out on weekends but you invest my life with song and feeling.

I resolve to work hard. I resolve to make friends. With guys who are cool. With girls who are single. But first I must sleep. Because you are the parade of enjoyable long days, which are still long, regardless.