Trembling hands hand over prescriptions and a quiet body sits in a corner to wait. Dizzy mind takes the wrong train and finds itself crossing the wrong bridge, but how beautiful it is, in spite of itself. The September sun beat down indiscriminately, and I sweat just standing still.
How things that for some would be a minor inconvenience can shake the earth and darken the skies for others. How I falter and tremble, re-evaluate my own existence altogether. I sat on the train back to the island and wanted desperately to tear this evil out of my body and toss it violently from the bridge; and yet, how different, for the evil to be something tangible, concrete, as opposed to those wraithey demons that will not let themselves be caught.
I decide that this is no dignified life. I hang off the edge of poverty, of sanity, of health; it was not what I had planned. (I suppose I had nothing planned at all.) I stand on a viciously hot street in Brooklyn, tears streaming down my face, and the train rattles overhead. You must break down, to build up. You hit the bottom, and you've nowhere to go, but up.
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