So the detritus of my life in the past year sits in the doorway of my empty apartment, squished, crammed, and stuffed into two big black suitcases. Two large overweight, overwrought monoliths bearing the bits and pieces of me, the memories scarcely contained, threatening to spew forth the minutiae of my life at the slightest provocation.

Cristo Redentor and the favelas of Rio De Janeiro overlook, with telling eyes and a knowing smile, my silent wardens of the year past. A cursory glance across the room reveals pockets of this and that, bits and pieces, kniks and knacks, a half used notebook, a ticket stub, a boarding pass. Pieces of me I have no space to accommodate but no heart to throw away. It's a peculiar vertiginous sensation, looking around this now empty room with too few windows and too many dust bunnies. John F Kennedy looks back, spewing his tired wisdom exhorting us to question authority and push for change and yet here I am full circle, in an empty room and too many bags.