Sunday mornings in the East Village are crisp, like brand new sheets of paper, like wind coming down a mountain. My car is parked near a fire hydrant, I walk past it anxiously, trying to weigh number of feet against the benevolence of the NYPD. There's no way to calculate it accurately.
The L train is still, after Union Square there is only a handful of us left. I make my way up the stairs, up, up, up, this City is built into the sky, we dig our ways out of the ground to the top of walkup stairs. The writing nook is quiet, the coffee I make is too weak but there's a sense of peace in making it, a sort of routine that carries me into my cubicle. On a day when I could have my pick, I still sit down at my usual, and it says more about me than I can be bothered with. Here are a precious few hours of writing time: do not waste them on yourself.
As the year comes to an end, you cannot help but look back over your shoulder and see what's become of the path behind you. Every year seems muddled and thorny at your fingertips, but at a distance, don't they begin to paint themselves in color, don't they look like favorite clothes in your closet eventually?
There is nothing wise to say about it yet. Everything is still grinding its way through your innards. Just wait patiently, remember to breathe in and then breathe out.
You cannot find wisdom
if you are dead.
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