We meet on the corner of Port Authority and Disneyland, this strange maze of bright lights and destitution. We squeeze into the little five bar on 9th avenue and squeeze in next to College Bros and Suit Bros and one of those quirky older ladies who believes you are interested in hearing what she has to say. The musical is awful, Off Broadway at its most tragic, so close in geography yet so painfully far in.. well, everything else. We rush back to the village before the aftermath has even worn off, order bowlfuls of expensive wine, wash ourselves clean. In the morning, my head pounds cruelly, but I rise to the word processor and wind into the Otherworld, familiar yet achingly far away. I am lost in its magical pathways, ever trying to find my way.
But at least I am there.
The heat rises in the little shoebox on 6th street. The bodega reopens its flower shop, celebrates with flags and music in the afternoon sun. New York is beautiful beyond measure in November and it's a lesson as worthwhile as any.
Any truth you've ever known can be rewritten.
There are marvels left in life yet to find.
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