You tumble out of Grand Central Station, the afternoon sun streaming at the far end of Lexington Avenue, New York forever welcoming you home like nothing has changed, like you haven't changed, even though every time you return to the little island everything is different.
I take the most important parts from the midtown apartment, turn off the lights, and head downtown. Chelsea lies like a promise to the south, with its low skyline and old buildings, with the little dog waiting by the door. Your muscles ache in that way that reminds you only of questions answered, of new ones placed in your lap. Futures look different when someone else paints them, you try them on for size and find that you like the lilt on your tongue.
The road hasn't been conquered yet, but neither have you. You tear the pages from your calendar and watch them float away. New York will welcome you home whenever you show up, in whatever way you arrive on its shores.
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