Chill

The temperature plummets, each day a roller coaster of incorrectly chosen outerwear and peeling layers. There was a moment, yesterday, in Washington Square Park, where spring was so overpowering it ached in your chest, all bloom bursting jazz playing people milling everybody's spirit floating into the sky and giggling as it bumps into the arch or the tree tops. You take the pain like a slit wrist, with gratitude.

The morning is grey, but without demands. Your mind races, and you let it run itself tired, knowing: when it has run out of things to scream, you can begin to speak.