The last few hours are like pushing through boulders. You steel yourself and ignore how your muscles ache. Completing the last items on your to do list and closing up shop gives you no satisfaction, this is the great cruelty of life. You read a story that sounds like it was written at you, it knocks the air out of your lungs.
Leave the cavern for the first time in days, deposited into the middle of a transit day unlike any other, Midtown Manhattan like the eye of the anthill. I find bourbon, find fresh air, I wasn't meant for skyscraper living and it shows. The doorman remembers me, says he's put packages aside for me, I pick up the bread crumbs where they're strewn and remark at the insight.
A day to give thanks arrives, to celebrate a bountiful harvest, to take stock of the year that's been. You don't know where to start. But whatever it's been, it's putting some of that air back inside your lungs.
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