The day after eruption is peaceful, but fraught. Your insides feel like after a great illness, ravaged, frayed. There's no buffer to protect against the demands of a day, I am soft. She asks how I'm doing, and my answers are tentative, hesitant. I throw some bags on a bike and weave through post-stormed streets to Grand Central, take quiet steps to a train seat -- forward-facing, riverside. How the Hudson always calms your fired turmoil. But it's more complicated now, not so easily accepted, not so quickly forgotten.
You begin to wonder if the trick is not to outrun your demons.
You begin to suspect the truth in fact is that you are them.
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