Wishewood

Twilight is breathtaking as we venture across the George Washington Bridge, motley buildings of downtown Manhattan playing like a symphony against the soft brush strokes of peach and periwinkle. By Paramus, night approaches and when we at last turn down the unmarked country road in through dense woods, everything is pitch black. Stars burst out above us. The dog pacces anxiously at the edge of a porch light before retreating to her cushion, and we eat reheated chili only shortly before midnight: here is the country, now. The pine floors creak of unknown residents, everything smells of generations of uncleared debris. There is a typewriter in my room from the 70s, hideous, but not out of place.

By morning, a new world lies at our feet. I wake early, but rested, the country vacuum a tonic for Avenue sleepers and I have long, intricate dreams that will not matter in the long run. The estate slopes gently toward quiet waters, a breeze meanders through the foliage. We work, but easily. I adapt too well to static and forget that there is reason to change one's scenery, if only briefly. I adapt well to boxes, and forget that my lungs were made for a challenge. We work, but not for long. 

There is life left to live
after all.