Dis:ease

The October sun is bright, we run drunk into the streets in the middle of the day because what is New York if not respite; what is New York if not the dream that your life could be different and maybe, for once, you could impress yourself.

We should all be trying to impress ourselves. It is tremendously difficult, and that is all the more reason for it.

Morning arrives with slow, churning questions, with an itch at the back of your spine and rain on the horizon. She writes from the gate and you sit paralyzed on the couch where she left you. You see the illness rev up, see it gather strength and set its gps to that soft spot in the center of your chest that so easily collapses under its thumb, but do you know what? I don’t care for your empty threats that rely so heavily on my consent to bury me. I don’t care for the ease with which I fold, so I think maybe I won’t anymore.

We made it this far. Why the fuck wouldn't we make it to the stars?