"What is your idea of home?" you asked me once. It was a cold New York night, rain pouring on West 23rd street, both of us standing there without umbrellas. I remember thinking, how, for the first time in my life I wasn't running away. 

When an existential question is asked in the cold, the solution, usually, is to quote Sartre. But I looked in your eyes and I knew that wasn't what you wanted to hear...