If you want it, the place is yours, they say, hand outstretched full of keys, windows wide open to the sweltering heat of iron radiators, pronouns amended with the life journey. You can see your storage unit from the bedroom, can sense the Statue of Liberty from the kitchen, can smell spring in the way the sunlight streams through the rooms. You take the keys before you've even remembered to ask any of the relevant questions, this was always how you made decisions in love, was always how you committed to homes. New York always met you where you needed it to.
Later, in the coffee shop down the street, you feel the city return to your blood stream, feel the life return behind your temples, you know again the stirring in your gut that alwas moved you forward after winter. There was a brief time when the stirring remained absent, when you sat stagnant in the death and mulch, but what use is there to think of it now, what purpose is there in lingering in past selves when the current one is actually alive?
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