One cannot stay on his island forever and I am now waiting for a 45 minutes delayed flight back to DC. I am trying to contain my anger while watching dozens of Winnie the Pooh and Miss Kitty backpacks pass by. I am still not completely sure where the island was really located and frankly I really don’t care. I remember that the melancholic songs by Judy Garland, Dinah Washington, Nina Simone, “Amigo Mío” by Naüta, “Why” by Annie Lenox and a hundred remakes of that “Ne me quitte pas” song were playing. Nico was also incessantly talking of breaking my heart in two but I ignored her and kept repeating “resistiré calle sol” to myself. I am certain I wasn’t in Chelsea even if someone wrote that he saw me, drunk beyond belief crying on the bathroom floor surrounded by empty little plastic pockets, Saturday at Boy’s room. My English sounded awful all week-end and my Spanish was even worse. And there were humming birds, slightly tropical fishes, memorabilia of silent movies icons, smaller islands within the island, kites I couldn’t fly, the rainforest, and quickly I lost track of time and purpose. Pictures were taken. I was laughing most of the time and had that little tan thing going on. And I was continuously talking about what I was going to do next: that I’ll go to Yoga, I’ll go back to school, I’ll leave Results and maybe I’ll get more efficient meds. There even were trips within the trip. It was all very hopeful and full of promises. And sometimes we probably did not sleep as much as we should have. In the evening, we would lower our voices. It felt a lot like the Lost Island without the whole Dharma initiative and f***ing polar bears bullshit. And I was confused most of the time, and I had to Klonopin it away frenetically cutting tablets in half with my long fingernails. I drank very little compared to usual and I ignored the internet cos now I seriously hate it: it’s lame. I think I’ll miss the island. Now I have to survive the 17 and then I’ll be in NYC on Friday 27th-29th.