Moving was such a bittersweet thing for me. In a sense, my conception of Milwaukee is inextricably linked to my old apartment. I may have had to contend with nasty infestations of insects and rodentia... and the racket of hissing, clanging pipes... and the odd odour that permeated the whole apartment--possibly from the sump pump, possibly from the gas stove, possibly from me... and the inexorable accumulation of dust, leaves and cobwebs... and an upstairs neighbour who insisted on stomping from one end of the apartment to the other at all hours of the night... and psoriatic walls that coated everything around them with a light layer of off-white flakes... but I still miss the place. The actual move out was hectic, but things had settled by the time I returned to clean. And as I stood in my empty apartment that one last time before turning in my keys, I mourned. I lingered. I felt like I was at the funeral of a friend who had pissed me off a lot in the past, but still a friend nonetheless--reassurances of this not to be said but tacitly understood. I focussed on the good things and tried to forgive the bad. I left as the sun was setting, marking the end of another day and another section of life.