I grow silent under watchful eyes. My hands freeze at the keyboards — literally too. Outside, it snows. New York feigns London winter of 1962, you put on another layer of clothing and vow to keep your head out of the oven. The light therapy box beams at all ours now, I cannot fall asleep for the manic energy it affords me at night. Is this not the time for poetry? Surely, surely it is. Surely the depths of our ennui, the darkness of our weary despair, leave only room for art and nothing else, this is not a loss. I pick up a pen again. Lace up my sneakers. Take a deep breath.
We have so far to go, still.
Can I tell you a story while we wait?
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