October comes for us all in different ways, sly, insidious, coddling. A straggler staggers in the Monday morning gusts, unable to stand upright in the wind, in the intoxication, their legs won't hold. The cafe owner downstairs says the neighborhood is not what it was, he's taking his restaurant to Brooklyn. Park Slope, he says dreamily, it's nice there, you should come. I try to explain to him my stupid loyalty to all things broken, how I never leave anymore, but he is not listening.
No one is listening lately, and I wonder if I'm only screaming on the inside.
The rain continues. Yesterday we drove top down in unforecasted sunshine out on Long Island and I thought I never have to come here again, all unending strip malls and income disparity, but the ocean is a gift every time and I took it. I tried whispering my gratitudes into the rolling waves but I get distracted so easily these days, my mind is a fog, once upon a time I called myself a writer but look at this jumbled mess, this is not what you came for. Me neither, frankly.
Everything is treacle. I drag my heavy limbs through its days. But why?
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