My bed is in storage. My clothes are in the car, ready to be shipped off to the storage space in the morning. I sleep on the floor tonight. A blanket, a couple pillows, my computer. Knick-knacks and whatnot. All that's left of this place. This apartment I've never felt comfortable in. I've never really been happy here, and I'm glad to go. But leaving is the nail in the coffin. I'm writing the last paragraph in one of the most important volumes of my life, and the finality of it is crushing.

The odd part (and I may have said this before, and if so, forgive me) is that I'm not sad about the end of my marriage. I'm sad about the end of the relationship before the marriage. I don't want Wendi back. She'll never again be the girl I fell in love with, and I'm just not compatible with the woman she's become. But god how I miss the times we shared...when we drove to Big Sur, singing 80's tunes at the top of our lungs...sneaking under the barbed wire along the coast to get a closer look at the Sea Elephants...the night we held each other close and sang softly into the other's ear...the evening we smoked pot and hiked in utter silence along the beach while the long beach jazz festival contributed to some wild aural hallucinations....sleeping in the tall grass under the afternoon sun on the shore of Big Bear lake...front row at cirque du soleil...Christmas in Dallas...A sunny morning nap in Golden Gate park..

I should be cleaning, getting ready for the walkthrough with the apartment manager tomorrow morning, but instead I think I'll lie on the floor, stare at the ceiling, listen to The Cure, and wallow for awhile. I wasn't going to let myself give in until after the work was done, but my memories have gotten the better of me. I know it will be better. I know that finishing this book will allow me to start on a new one; one that I haven't even heard of yet. But tonight I'm in limbo, and I'm not a happy bean.