I walked east on 14th street, one block between 6th and 5th avenue, with my eyes closed again today. The spring sun shines so brightly and it seems impossible to ignore it, to walk eyes open, face pointed at the ground, as though sunlight weren't the most amazing form of magic available. I'm sure it looks ridiculous, having to open my eyes now and then to avoid walking straight into oncoming pedestrians or construction scaffolding, but I don't care. My every text is full of exclamation points and giggles, it takes all my strength not to run straight out of the office and leap into the streets. Spring is like that first immense gasping breath you take after diving deep underneath the water and rolling along at the bottom of a wave, and it makes you feel so terrifically alive, with the slight tingling sensation at the edge of you skin that you very nearly weren't, and so the mere act of breathing seems a most gratifying gesture.
There's a large sheet of paper hanging over my bed -- bullet points of a story barely half written. I made a few notes as my mind raced past it, and then, scribbled at the top: Remember: You own this piece. Your imagination dictates its reality.
It seemed as real a statement as any.
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