I didn't want this semester to end. I didn't care that it was hell in a handbasket. I didn't care how much it sucked. I didn't care whether or not I was failing, or whether or not I was behind. Sure, I was tired of using my brain as a giant calculator. Sure, I was tired of always being tired. Sure, I hate the cold, and sure, I hate walking in feeling that way. But, you know what? I'm not writing from home. I'm in Bath. At my father's computer. On my father's desk. I'm about to go upstairs to my old room, that has been rearranged so many times, I can't even keep track. I'm living in a house that hasn't been home to me since late 2001, when I left for school. I am at home when I am writhing in physics pain and coming home after work and doing homework and retreating into Shannon's arms, just being there. I am at home when I am swimming in debt and gadgetry, lurking under my covers, begging for sleep. I am at home when I am far away, longing to be gone, noticing that I've already ran so far away that no one can see me. I am at home at school, in my own life. This is not my life, here at 17 Maxwell Street, Bath. This was my life. It's not my life anymore. I feel dead here. I feel like a stronger, happier ghost of my former self haunts my house, and I see him everywhere. It's hard to look back on him and not smile. It's also hard not to hurt and wish I were him.