A room for rent, a vacancy to be filled

Bedroom has two windows, hardwood floors, great location, just steps from the subway. It faces out onto a busy street, and so it's best to have music that gently absorbs such noises of truck gears and brakes, honks and street hollers, while at the same time offering a subliminal sense of calm and cool to the space. Furniture negotiable music?

"The closets, you'll see, are huge. Mine's filled with records. I dread the idea of having to move them one day though."

Someone politely asks if that's Miles and Coltrane on the stereo, playing ever so softly. No, it's Joe Henderson.

"This isn't much of a skylight. It just keeps the living room from being so dark and bleak, which it often is by early afternoon."

One applicant wants to talk about the recently unearthed set of Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane at Carnegie Hall, but I break character and gush with fervor about its greatness. Settle down to talk about how the bills are broken up, the cleaning schedule, how sweet the landlady is, reiterate how great the location is, how I've stayed on this long. It suddenly occurs to me that this is the longest I've lived in any one place.

But I've been out here on my own, Moist-less, not having the greatest fall. Music has felt very, very far away. I've peeked into the MW empire now and then to see what you all have been up to, but for the most part have felt a bit alienated, to be honest. Boys, boys, boys. Music, music, music. Alex says I'm "truant," Brian's busy getting wounded down south, James thinks everything's great (just to give you a small picture of the MW innards.)

At Alex's birthday party the other night a friend kissed me on the mouth. I'm a married woman, and it was just a "hello" kiss, but it took me somewhere I don't usually go. Shortly thereafter, Alex and I were speaking to a book packager friend of ours about Moistworks. (He had never heard of it. My god! But said, "Sounds like my dream blog.") (Is this a blog? I still can't accept that word). And, in a fever of (drunken) excitement (throughout which Alex didn't fail to mention what a poseur I am for even talking about this thing I've "abandoned"), I pitched the packager guy a "Moistworks book." Then, about three seconds later (during which he looked remarkably intrigued), said, "No, never mind, there's no book." And he was like, "Wait a second," and I was like, "No, fuck off, there's no book."

So, all that to say, I guess I'm back. Songs about being back. Can you return if no one noticed you were gone?