The place appears on the screen like I dreamed it into existence. High ceilings, wide windows, opening to a scene I've seen for days, months, years. I know those windows by heart from the outside, know those floors from my dreams. A note on my desk lists the address. One day. The agent walks around the narrow corners, sunlight flooding his every step, as he talks of countertops, and I don't hear a word. I see windows in the kitchen overlooking East Village rooftops and think this year comes bearing gifts. I spend the night lying in bed with my eyes open, heart racing. I know it's too soon, I know I'm not ready.
I know there are more polished edges I wish I could show you when you come. But nevermind.
I will be here, when you are ready.
What I'm trying to say is.
Please get ready.
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