The train across the Manhattan bridge is a gift your give yourself, is a pill from New York to ease the pain, but it’s a testament to its shortcomings that you do not ride it back and forth on a loop, that you do not stay on it for days on end, because the bright lights only carry you so far, the rest of the way you have to walk to yourself. The October winds are a hurricane, they set the west ablaze but your flame is small enough to keep in a back pocket. The streets are a carnival, the Bowery is a gamble and sometimes the cards blow away unasked. The answers slip through your fingers.
It’s only life. Surely you can find them again when the dust has settled.
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