Let’s stay in Belgium. Let’s stay in Ghent but find a bigger place, with room to work. Let’s rent a studio but stay in our tiny house. Let’s move to the countryside and open a center for writers. Let’s move back to England and do whatever, but at least there’s an Anglophone literary scene. Screw the whole ‘having a job’ thing, let’s sell all our stuff and travel by bike through the south of France and be migrant labor. Let’s just get some land in Portugal and live in a tent, build a house out of the bricks of an old one. Let’s move to Detroit and start a writers’ and artists’ residency center and a free school. Let’s win the lottery (let’s play the lottery). Stay in Belgium but move to Wallonia. Stay in Ghent and shut up about it already. Spend more time writing. Spend less time writing. Work in a bar or a shop or anywhere that will have me, just to have a job. Move to Minneapolis, try to adjunct there. Move to Paris, why not. Move to New York and try to get an editorial job. Apply for a Fulbright. Apply for an NEA grant. Apply for every fellowship under the sun. Let’s go for a walk while the sun is out. Spend Saturdays in the library. Visit the museums on the days they’re free. This is a rough transcript of our conversations as we try to figure out where the next year will take us. Reality? Um, nowhere to be seen. Perspective, ditto.