We packed our belongings in neatly labelled and weighed boxes, we swept and sponged and vacuumed the apartment, we loaded the boxes in my parents' minivan, we carted them off to the garage, and then we carted ourselves off to Molly's apartment for the two week interim between moving out of our old place and leaving on a train for our new place.

Well, our new city.

We don't have a new place yet.

My head is spinning with GoogleEarth's 2.5 dimensional renditions of craigslist's housing possibilities (is that hill too steep to bike home on, with a trailer full of groceries? where ARE the groceries?).

Molly is irritated by our presence tonight. She went to bed without saying goodnight and didn't respond to my IM apologies for talking during her TV show.

I am starting to feel guilty about the possible reprocussions of every squeak of the floorboards, every moved item, every inch of space Mark and I gobble.

I want to say it's too much, the stress of planning a move for two financially separate people, living without privacy in Molly's living room, still working my job, apartment hunting, itinerary creating, reservation making, biking in the slush, living out of my backpack, worrying about my nebulous future as an aspiring TV writer, saying see you later to 26 years' worth of friends, to my family.

But it's necessary. It's just moving.

Forward motion; mush mush.