This is it. Tomorrow is the start of a new life, of a new chapter, a new section with a new rhythm, a new feel, a new baseline. We’ve just heard the refrain, this is the bridge, and tomorrow starts the full-length guitar solo, maybe with a trumpet or two, perhaps some breaks.

I’ve been pretty consumed with literature the last few days. Call it a mental breakdown, call it a break, call it whatever you want. It was some kind of escape, getting away from real life, from missing deadlines, diving back into Lolita and Hapworth 16, 1924; a intriguing road trip throughout the US with a malicious intent, and the summer camp experiences of an extraordinary seven-year-old.

In a few hours I’ll be turning twenty-one. Standing on my desk is a bottle of Oban 14 years, next to it a stack of post-its with tasks that need to be completed before I take a flight to London in the morning. I’m pretty proud of the things I’ve been able to get done in those measly 21 years on this planet so far, especially considering that I was only partially conscious and not at all reflexive for at least a third of that time. I have people I can call my friends in multiple cities, in multiple countries even. I’ve built a company that I’m proud of, and helped build two or three others.