Move Out. Move In. Fall Apart She was an unexpected vision on a rainy, winter day. I recall her white shirt, white pants, and white jacket; her blonde hair with dark roots. It made sense that she was Greek: a country on the edge of the West. What would I do now with my girlfriend at home? This Greek graduate student, named Sofia, looked like a beauty cast for a 1970s French science fiction film. Then, as now, Sofia was a recipe for a life undone, a comedic portrayal of a mine collapsing. So when she said, a month after we met, that the flat across from where she lived was for rent, I jumped, thinking the universe was weaving webs of gold. As a single man, my daydreams grew unrestrained; mine was a universe tumbling, disturbed. Two days later, I left my new place to shop for food and squint at her window. She was out front with boxes. Sofia waved: I'm moving down to London to live with James, a gardening historian. Butterflies and ladybugs flew from under her dress to pull the last fibers of sanity from my ears. Back then, when my mind torqued, I drank until I floated home on a river of stout, laughing while toasting Neruda. Two weeks later, I woke up on the sidewalk, a policeman gently nudging me with his foot. I sang him an Englishman's words: show me the way. I want you to show me the way.