The piano trembles in minor keys, dripping back and forth under heavy fingertips but it's only for show, it's a harmless sorrow to bleed across vocal cords, let it seep out into the ether and dissipate. Let it go. The sun beamed on the bridges to Manhattan this morning, how can I not smile at the mad stacks of life that are this city? How can I race downhill toward Delancey Street, with the whole island spreading out around me and not know that everything will all be well? I stare into the sunlight like a drug, like I cannot get enough, I fill my every nerve ending, every last cell with its light, 17 days until it turns, I know we've seen the bottom, my dear, I know we grate our skin along it time after time and think we'll never breach the surface again but oh, oh how I know there is always a moment when you kick yourself up, you are suffering now, make no mistake, but you will not always. Some day, this pain will be useful to you.
No one reads a book
where the character just wants to make it to the end.
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