Milling

The street downstairs is blocked off, they intend to tear the whole thing up by its roots, they intend to turn it over and maybe start afresh but all it means is you will not sleep till dawn

but would you have anyway? 

The weather turned on a dime, you pull out mountains of warmer clothing to make it just two stops into Brooklyn, just two steps into your imagination playing tricks on you, the Reverend is on the stage playing music and you can’t help yourself, there’s something about an old spiritual that makes you smile into a silence, he walks you reluctantly to the train and in the space between you forget to put on your mask, forget there was a pandemic. The heat comes on in the little apartment on 6th street. A moon is nearly full outside the window  

You sleep, but only on paper.