The days rush from under you, spinning in strange aches and confusing maelstroms, time becomes a figment of your abundant imagination - maybe you never had any to begin with. His face on the screen lingers, softening your panic, maybe all will not be disasters in the end.
New York is a dream in November, even after Daylight Savings robs you of your will to go on come four pm, at least the mornings are a dream, at least the little shoebox on 6th street is a mountain of windows, you cannot be angry when you dreamed a place such as this into existence. New York continues to shine its light on you.
You go back to the drawing board. You know there was a purpose there, waiting. You just needed breath enough to find it.
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