8:00pm: The walk back to the venue was as beautiful as any night could have been. I hadn't seen the skyscrapers at night since I had lived here. The streets were packed and excited and I didn't mind. A desperate scalper approached us and offered us tickets for a chunk cheaper than box office, and we took him up on it. The line had already disappeared inside by the time we got back, and I walked in calm and grateful to stand at birds eye view.

It was all to pervert the tradition. It was all to make it our own.

9:30pm: The obvious omission of glass skin didn't alarm me; rather, I was grateful. I had mourned that song so as a salve to my wounds, made it unconsciously gauze to hide my pain, that it felt appropriate that it was gone.

1:45pm: I woke up sometime in the late morning/early afternoon, happy for the excuse to be off of work and elated at not having to wake up at four in the morning just to get there. We discussed what we felt like eating, deciding to wait until we were willing to venture downtown. So we sat down with a klondike bar and played video games into the evening.

9:00pm: The prophet walked out to face the crowd, to preach the gospel I soaked myself in a million times in person once again, blessed with a new beginning. And I found peace.

7:00pm: Saturday night traffic made the fairly short ride west seem long. As I looked at the line wrapped a block back from the venue, a twinge of worry struck me. He rubbed my head to salve my concern. We continued on forward, our empty bellies aching for sushi and an eel bowl.

1:45am: As I walked into the cold night, still awake, I felt sick looking at that bus. That night it would travel that terrible mile, through the mountains and into wasteland. So unreasonable, this worry, and yet so palpable.

Prayers, executed by five strangers, filled my home with their blessings.

A week has passed, and something feels different inside of me. Perhaps it was that charming news that there was a loathing of that place that (in my head, at least) mirrored my own. Perhaps it was the the destruction of an old ritual to create a new one. Perhaps it's gratitude, a gratitude to be sitting with a very eccentric notebook on my own hardwood floor instead of the floor of a dimly lit three and a half star hotel.

I'm home, and happy that home is here.��

Destroy Once Done