Plastics

Big, heavy snowflakes slowly twirl down toward a West Village courtyard. They land on the trees, the windowsills, the brick walls. They melt on the ground but rest quietly on the cast iron rails, and in the distance, the sky has that faint glow that comes with snow.

Overnight, the temperature plummeted, and everything grew a little more still. The blood doesn't course as quickly through my veins, my breath isn't as shallow. My To-Do list grows and I accept. Patti Smith comes on the television and says New York was such a kind city, but that it's no good to artists these days, and that art is sacrifice. She looks happy. She has such a soft face.

I know it isn't true. But I still think the world was a cooler place, then.