I should probably go home, my nose is starting to leak. I have to
alternate hands; smoking or writing, cigarette or pen; making the choice,
one at a time.
I should have dressed more warmly, but only my bum is really numb, and another layer wouldn't have helped. My neck is sore, but that's my fault for not thinking ahead, the line for concessions was too long, and by the time I got into the theater, there were only front-row seats left.
I should probably go home, it's time to eat something. I do live there, after all, there's food and a bed and I could use an early night.
I don't want to go home. There is so much more happening out here, even though I'm not doing anything and my books are all near my bed and my computer is humming and waiting.
I should really go home, I can't stay here forever and there's laundry to be put away, people I live with to talk to or ignore, same as I do out here, everyone moving around me.
I'm going home, but only because I'm cold.