Now that the decision to sell our place has been made, I’m feeling nostalgic for all the things we did and didn’t do while we lived here. The idea of what a “home” is supposed to be is tainted in our minds, as I suppose that due to our non-conforming alternative lives, we can’t fit the molds of what we, in some way, long for, normal. It’s hard to get over the idea that this is just another motel we temporarily inhabit, except with this one, we also have to be the cleaning service.