A hurricane appears on the horizon, crying wolf at the coastline. New Yorkers remain unruffled, checking their liquor stores and leaning back. You think we haven't seen worse? The storm loses interest and veers off toward New England, tossing a few thousand buckets of water in our general direction.
For an entire day, I do not leave the bed. I stretch long limbs to collect new books, rogue pens, switch sides to find the what little light seeps from between the storm clouds, step gingerly onto the leaning floor to refill the coffee cup. It should be a dream but it is steeped in the last words of broken hearts, convoluted by the shreds of old wounds stuck in the spokes. The day runs away, the weekend, the season, drowned in a monsoon, a pandemic, a soul too lost to ever have had hope in finding its way. Monday morning arrives.
That's all there is to say about it.
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