You look behind the nightstand, in search of the end of a charging cable and finding, instead, a cockroach the size of a small bird, dead on the floor. Your time in Bushwick draws to an end, a great nor'easter drags across the borough but disappears in a sigh, the streets cold, the pavement wet. A ticket lies in your inbox, spring lies around the corner, there is much left to do, but you begin to believe, at last, that perhaps you can still do it. So many questions remains, but then, so do you.
And as such,
all is still possible
ahead.
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