Terminal 5

(At some point during the flight, I looked out the window into the vast, black night and saw an immense city grid spread out in all directions, until abruptly cut by the darkness of water. It seemed so human, somehow, the earth viewed from space and did we create all this?)

Peach-colored dawn over Howard Beach in Queens. I'm on that red-eye again, always flying the red-eye into New York and landing as in a whole new world where morning just has broken and all the day lies before us. The A train is full of tired people going to work on a Sunday, and you see the structures, the makeup of the city but you love them for sitting there anyways, because they make up this city and you doubt you'd love it as much without them. The West Village sleeps when you reach it. 

I read a book this week, a delicate piece with unfinished edges but a fine polished sheen of sweat and desperation on it. You adored every word, let them sink in to your pores until you longed for your own words with a beating ache. Late August-New York beckons, with that warm lush air and the makings of a future you've missed since before you knew it existed. 

What dreams could you have?

You are here.