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  • I've lived in the same building for 22 years. Eleven years in this apartment, and eleven more in another apartment that is exactly the same, two stories up. It's been most of my life. And I really don't want to live there anymore. But last sunday, It was the last day I saw the apartment. I painted the green bedroom white, as the landlord had demanded on inspection day.

    The time spent there made me feel it all. That this space, this place is mine, and no one else's. Only I know what pictures used to hang where there's nothing but tape marks left. Only I know that the one black spot and the two green spots on the kitchen floor is from Folkes first painting of a styrofoam egg.

    Those are my memories, decades of them. How can someone else just move in and live among them? Someone who can see nothing but green and black spots?

    So when the defining moment came, when I was all done, and had to throw the key in the mail drop, tears ran down my face. I cried, and cried, and cried. There was no way of opening my door, ever again, if I dropped it.

    And so I did.
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