Did they say it's running on the R? he says across rumbling subway trains and two sets of face masks. The train takes strange twists and turns in the late night; in the back of your mind something says you used to have this knowledge ingrained between your shoulder blades.
The stranger and I chat through half of midtown, New York of the old ways returning, fist bumps at the end of the line because vestiges of humanity remain in us against all odds. I ride a bike east from Astor Place, late Tuesday night quiet on St Marks and two kids spinning the Cube, like kids have for generations. I am going to make it through this year if it kills me, rings in your head and something about the tingle on your lips says you already have.
You wake early with the dawn, sunlight streaming in through still unfamiliar windows. The birds on the fire escape pay you no mind, chattering their morning gossip across Alphabet City. There's a cool breeze in the air, gentle May this year like it knows we are bruised. He writes good morning on your eyelids, and you think maybe Hemingway was right. When the spring comes, there is no problem except
where to be happiest.
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