Finally, instead of the simply sloppily painted drywall that I face every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday while I work my (unpaid) editorship(!), I distractedly ponder tacked-on sketches of monsters, letter stencils, and photos of family and friends. I am ill-at-ease to discover that I derive satisfaction from this act, because it seems the only way and place to make home . . . But maybe I need to do more things with my hands, rather than thinking about how broke I am and how the cost of groceries have grown exponentially since I've "moved" to San Francisco.

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