The writer writes about being a writer. She sits on the rooftop of that old factory, the same rooftop on the same factory where we spent so many nights, staring out over Manhattan and wondering what possibilities lay in our hands.
The factory is dwarfed by a hundred shiny new skyscrapers now. It is not symbolism, only time.
Maybe that is the symbolism.
I lie in bed reading, late night, legs climbing against the wall, because I always did my rightest reading in the wrongest angles, and I think of New York in 2002. I think of being a poor and solitary writer, of leaving the city behind, of all the things we sacrifice for the one flame to fan.
I only think. I do not reach any answers.
By morning, my head is full of strange dreams, missed flights and responsibilities. My face is unrecognizable in the mirror.
Familiar.
But from a time you thought you could put behind you and never have to face again.
No one ever said the possibilities had to be good.
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