i fled the west village & my soho writer girlfriend, escaped, not so much the place or the person, but rather my futon (not really mine), my part-time bookstore job, my raisin bagel with a hard boiled egg breakfasts, i was done, with having no money, done with the cacophony of 2am drunken shouts rising from west 4th street below, as i tried to dream about characters in an isaac bashevis singer novel, done with the flood of tourists who swarmed sidewalks every weekend, so i got on a train to dc, new york city chapter closed.