It Better Last

New York drowns in its temperatures. I know I mention the weather too much but it's so hard not to. Walk these same paths as always. The waitress is new but the drinks taste the same: everything is different, somehow. I long for the storm. Surely it'll come soon. The plants on my window sill are screaming for a change.

I found the story again today, I feared it was long gone and my cavorting around the Old World had erased it from my heart, but it had not. I know who I am only through words, and it turns out to be the only thing that matters. An alarm clock lies in wait, but it cannot touch me. I looked around me. And it turned out I was free.