I wake early - too early - the blinds all pulled to the top of the windows and bright Sunday morning washes the room. Bright Sunday morning after Christmas, how still the town. Last night, I took a long walk around the West Village, quiet but for a few family restaurants, a few errant tourists, and remembered what it is I meant to do with this life. Dark brick colonials, spacious rich townhouses, narrow cobbled streets, this city always knew how to ground me in a hushed magic, I returned to the East Village at peace, stars beaming from the windows of my shoebox, my every move permeated with joy.
In the morning, the doves have lined up on my windowsills, basking in sunlight, afforded a brief pleasure, I walk slowly around the apartment so as not to disturb them. The sky is achingly blue. I see answers and clarity lined up ahead of me.
They look an awful lot like hope.
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