Wake early from strange dreams, unfamiliar faces with a familiar feeling in their skin linger along your fingertips, everything comes up poetry. Disorienting to rise, but unsurprising. Swallow your hope and carry on, awaiting the storm, awaiting the inevitable drops. He asks how do you live as a writer in New York and the only answer I can think of is poor. But when he asks why do you do it, you begin talking and do not come up for air until the Nolita crowd has grown young and the Bowery rowdy, you stare into distant starscapes and feel the blood in your veins soften, your spine align. The mouse does not appear for days but you are patient.
You know a really good story
takes time to tell.
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