Never More

And this is where we write, she says, pointing at the closed wooden door. The hallway smells like coffee and radiator steam, beads of sweat creep down your back after mounting the long staircase. An editor at the kitchen table asks what I'm writing, and when I try to answer only joy spills out. I fill out the paperwork, she gives me a key. Opening the door feels like walking through a portal, like unwrapping the most intriguing present, my skin tingles. 

There's a silence in the space that holds you. 14th street lies somewhere not too far away but the distance feels immeasurable. You do not take out your ruler. For a short moment, time is your own again, like it used to be, not like you wielded it into submission but like you made friends with it. The street grows dark outside the window, you are oblivious to the changes of the world, and why shouldn't you be. 

There are too many worlds
still needing exploring.