The air in the morning after a storm is always clearer than any other, the water more peaceful though the tide is high. A tentative sun climbs up behind the Williamsburg skyscrapers as you try to retrieve your senses. Last night, a flash that surprised you, like January erases summer weather from your memory, the violent smack that followed in a heartbeat setting you straight again. Later, a raging downpour while you race toward a deadline late into the night, you were never happier than reaching for that line, than when it presses the yoke of its adrenaline on your shoulders. It helps you ignore all the other voices that yell from within you.
Earlier, at the reading, you stand staring into the bar, trying to hear the magic between the words. You’ve been so far from any magic and you wonder if that isn’t why you pad yourself in all this self-harm. You are a cliche.
Friday arrives, the beauty of a sunrise after January thunder. You absorb it like you still believe in remission.
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