Long Island Rail Road to Long Island, the suburbs itch on your neck, but you find your old car safely nestled in its conformity. The best part of the city continues to be the coming back. I drive across the Williamsburg Bridge at twilight, the twisting and growing midtown skyline simmering in the sunset, an animal molting old versions of itself. When I reached the top of the bridge, I burst out laughing. This is my home, this place is mine, I thought, the busy, noisy, ridiculous streets of the city approaching to greet me like a trust fall. How could I ever think of leaving, when a feeling like this exists?
At the Monday writing bar, the music silences when the bartender has to call the owner for troubleshooting. The cash register has lived a lifetime already, but it'll make it another three. The clock is perpetually stuck at 9:41, he moves it to fix the machine and you are temporarily disoriented by the change. Suspicious Minds comes back on, the din resumes. A new story digs its way out of your limbs, scratching and tumbling. You are molting, too, leaving old versions of your stories behind you, coming out brand new to greet the spring, the dawn, the day that follows whatever darkness has cloaked you all these years.
New York is not for the faint of heart, it's true.
But it will always be there,
when you are ready to beat your heart in it.
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