I rode the subway for hours today, miles and miles of subterranean discoveries and sunny, above-ground commute. New York City spread wide in all directions, every oddly cobbled, graffitied, run-down, glossed-over bit of it and a thousand people with it, making their way home, or away. Halfway into Brooklyn I was the last white hair on the train. In Queens, the skyscrapers peeked out from behind dirty buildings and budding trees, new green and unstoppable. Spring returns, undeterred by the changes and the end of the world, it is not afraid of your avalanches or tears; that is a comfort.
This morning, I ran along the East River as it awoke deep in a fog, the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges buried in its sleep and the sharp edges of the buildings softened. On my return, the sun had broken through and gleamed off the steel, impossibly romantic. I took a snapshot in my head to keep for days of doubt.
Love is a great gift. When you find it, hold on like hell. It will tell you, at last, who you are.
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