EVERY NEW WAVE, be it French, German or Blondie, arrives at the coast on the eve of fatigue, unease, and expiration. In other words — I am ready for my life to change.

Today I woke up and ate cherries for the first time in seven months. Then I lit some incense in my room, one of a hundred or so Nag Champa sticks I’d recently acquired on an expedition to Strawberry Fields.

I am neither Hindu nor a Bob Dylan enthusiast, and as such I can’t shake the feeling that my forays into the quasi-spiritual stem from a deep-seated need to find myself again after five muddled years of institutionalized confusion.

David Byrne said: “My building has every convenience/ It’s gonna make life easy for me.” Standing on my best friend’s porch, peering out at the calm sea of suburbia, I think to myself: This could be my house.

Our consciousness can’t possibly be limited to the workings of our brain. How is it that we can analyze our own thoughts, and ponder those analyses, in an endless spiral of self-interpretation if the brain is all there is to the human mind?

As my own personal François Truffaut and Joe Jackson wash over me, I wonder: What means the world to me?