Early morning, reverse commute, long lines of cars make their way up the mountain as you careen down it in peace. The coffee shop is quiet still when you get there, but quickly fills up with people who look like they might want to stay there all day.
You know you do.
They sit in the bubble of a writing space, concocting stories out of nothing, creating magic out of the firing synapses of their own making. You adore them.
A weekend stretches out ahead of you, strings of hours serving only to remind you what this time is for. You did not leave New York to sleep early and watch the days pass. You left New York to make more space for the whims of your interior. If you do not do that, you may as well go home.
Take the road while it is available to you,
See what you find at the end of the headlights
and what you might make of it for the world.
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