Early mornings in March, icy winds down First Avenue as I run to catch a train that refuses catching, we've forgotten the rhythm, the motion of arrival, the remnants of sake lapping the sides of my temples. We get to Brooklyn right on time, sun shining, friendly faces incredulous about the prospect of meeting in person, it's the closest to hope I've come in years. Strange premonitions lie on this day, you mourn the optimism of your previous self, but you are not down for hte count just yet.
There is creativity left in your veins, yet, there is witty banter at tiny East Village bars, words to write, flowers to see, it's been a long cold lonely winter but you are still here.
Start there.
Take it wherever you can.
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