Inn

The days pass. A child emperor plays tricks with our minds, we go to bed exhausted, he hurt. The sun outside is balmy, I pull up my sleeves and the river promenade is busy again. The forecast says winter tomorrow, they close the schools, it doesn't add up. Alternate winter. The bar smells like New York bars are supposed to smell, beer on wood on a century of dim lights and conversation, you take deep breaths and try to remember magic over indifference.

I sat at my desk today, my tiny salvation writing desk that I painted dove grey and my socks still bear the stains, and the 2nd avenue sunlight hit me like a message from creation: endure, endure, endure, and life will return.

You are alive now. Soon you will live again.