David Berthy Posts:

I've been thinking about the first month I lived in Chicago. I was heartbroken, friendless, and, since I moved from LA in the beginning of February, completely unused to the cold. I had a job to keep me busy during the week, but the interminable weekends were tough to fill. Sometimes, I would ride the trains at night with no destination, listening to music like this. Hunched in the back of a car, I'd stare at the city lights through the stained plexiglass windows, the salt-caked, desolate train platforms with buzzing heat lamps, and the groups of bundled people who, dream-like, flowed in and out of the sliding doors. Eventually, I'd get off and walk to my apartment, where I wouldn't take off my headphones until my ipod was plugged into the stereo. I would sit in the dark and smoke cigarettes, trying to pinpoint the moment I'd gone off the rails. It was pretty indulgent, the acting out of a fantasy of urban alienation I'd long held dear, but that doesn't mean I don't miss the crystalline melancholy of that winter when my ipod finds something like "Your Face" on the shuffle.

Your Face