Wednesday, May 28, 1997
Dear Nova,
So much has happened in the past two days that I hardly know how to begin this letter. I’m writing from my new bedroom, at least for the time being. I’ve found a place to stay, and it’s not even a hotel or public park.
As I recount the past forty-eight hours, the events feel so surreal. It’s like some pre-orchestrated blueprint exists somewhere just beyond my mind’s reach. I doubt I could have choreographed things more smoothly, even if I had planned them all myself from the start. I’m trying to feel appreciative of my good fortune—instead of suspicious. After only a day in New York without a strategy, how do I now find myself with a roof over my head? It’s like I’m flowing along a river current that has its own destination in mind. I suppose not havin
