The illness leaves and returns with a vengeance. I walk breathless along an east river in its prime, New York beams in October, makes up for all its ills, kisses your bruised knees and tries to make you forget what has passed. Everything aches but I don't want to listen to it, I walk breathless along the east river and feel something new, something familiar but far away, like a distant memory. It takes you a moment to realize it is joy. Like you dragged your wasted heart, your weary soul through a thousand deserts and were landed suddenly on the banks of an oasis. Like you'd been a jumble of jigsaw for years and suddenly all the pieces sat neatly together, sat soft in your chest.
I came back to the little shoebox on 6th street and everything looked different, clearer, crisp in its contrasts. It's been a long, cold, lonely winter.
Maybe this is how it ends.
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