Everyone told her that she would miss suburbia once she got to New York, but she's never looked back. She still needs absolute silence when she's working. The only sound she needs or wants to her is her guitar as selfish as that might be. There's too much going on in her head at any given moment, but at the end of a busy day there's only one thing that can calm her down.
She usually makes a cup of tea first, peppermint or vanilla before slipping into her most comfortable pajama pants (the ones covered in snowmen that she really should only be wearing during the winter months) and heads out onto her balcony. It needs a new chair. The green striped cushion on hers is missing a button and the stuffing has settled into a permanent lump, but it hardly seems to matter after a while. The city's even noisier than any number of scattered thoughts in her brain. The couple down the street screaming at each other have problems that seem much more complicated than hers, drowning them out completely.
It's a strange little symphony that's always been comforting because on some level, even back home, organized chaos is all she's ever known.
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