Another day, another dance of the sweeping curbsides, of seasoned New Yorkers jig sawing themselves together in a strange mosaic that shouldn't work but just, does. She asks you to send a few of your words about the city for an art piece and as you look ack over chapters and chapters of archives, you feel every word you ever wrote comes up short. This doesn't do it justice, you think.
But what justice can be done to love in words? There is only action.
There is only showing up every day, the magical ones and the ones that make you question your every commitment. There is only in good days and bad. There is only trying each day to raise the other a little high toward the sky and say Look at this miracle, in my hands. It will not always look how you imagined,
but that's the thing about miracles.
They're always magic on the inside.
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