It isn’t a home. It isn’t my home. It never was. The things I have in the poisoned apt., the books and belongings that are dear to me try hard but it’s no good. I feel like a prisoner. I feel like an outcast, someone who doesn’t belong there or anywhere else. The two 5 day Quit notices I received have a lot to do with this feeling. I see the bed that my cat and I share. She likes the bed and thinks it is hers and ours. It isn’t. I see us out there on the street in this brutal New York weather. I cringe as if standing in front of someone who is going to push me/us off a cliff or mountain.