Your muscles ache. You try to stretch them out and warm them up, bend them like young boughs in spring but they are old and gnarled with winter. The calendar does not tell you how much longer you have to live.
David Bowie comes on the screen, smiles at you in that way he does that reminds you life is mad and New York is your best bet at being part of it. It’s been two years since he passed gave you a final kick in the chest. You look over your words and wonder if you’ve done what you said, if you’ve made yourself proud.
But you are not seventy. You are not sick and finite. It is too soon for retrospective. She writes from a snowy Midwest and says all that matters now is make the art. You’re not to know what it’s for, yet. You envy her freedom before remembering your distaste for envy.
If you want it otherwise, make it otherwise.
How else could you claim to be free?
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