Code

Overnight, the city turns leaves. Every breath, every step, is a breaking alert, a new decree. New Yorkers huddle in their homes, step tentatively outside, ask each other are we still doing this? and no one has answers for more than the next subway car. Seen the lights go out on Broadway. World weary millenials rave about falling airfare but don't quite dare to pull the trigger. We count the bottles in the liquor cabinet and wonder how to prioritize our limited Manhattan storage space. Short surges of excitement are replaced by dread. Do you remember when the hurricane hit? Do you remember the planes? Shelves at the fancy organic grocery gape empty, panicked faces bumble through long lines, while the regular old corner store is weary with Lower East Side grit, unlimited rice and beans, angry Russian ladies, they're an anodyne. Message chains burn through overworked phones, are we terrified or excited, is this our chance to take a step back, recharge, who do we want to be when the storm abates?

Dark clouds amass on the horizon. We're running slow motion into the winds now. Hold on tight, little monkey, we're in for a bumpy ride.