(post script)

I walked north in the dark rainy night, the evening mild but black in that way that Sundays can get in the fall and everything lies waiting, watching. The streets melted from under me, ten blocks, twenty blocks, I couldn't feel the miles so I kept going. Someone new moved in across the street, lights came on that have not been on in ten months and a young man hung in the window, in anticipation. Things are happening. 

The old apartment on Lexington lay dark. I wondered what my subconscious was trying to tell me, dragging me past this street corner as though I was looking for answers in my scraggly roots. By the time I reached 34th street, it seemed as well to just keep going, and I shuffled across the waiting hall of Grand Central station when only a few tired travelers remained. Remember people? 

That's all we do now, is say remember...? Remember travel? Remember fun? Remember rush hour? We paint old ills in romantic hues, try to make light of the fact that we've been buried for a year, maybe we're just trying to get through the day, what do I know? By the time I made my way south down Fifth Avenue the rain had picked up. I looked for answers in midtown streets while young proselytes hounded me about divinity. I told them good luck with that. 

At St Marks church I found daffodils and cherry blossoms, strange remains of a movie set feigning spring. Fake it till you make it. Remember making it?

The walk afforded more questions than answers. It's hard when all you want is not to want anymore. They speak of revenge narratives and the only vengeance I can think of is against my own indifference. The clock keeps ticking. My typewriter limps on its makeshift repairs. Tomorrow it is March. 

Try a new walk till something sticks. 

If you don't know where you want to go, then it doesn't really matter which road you take.