The unbearable weight of the world lies draped over your brow in the late morning, the cloud cover outside mimicking the sentiment. You cannot shake the feeling that everything is going terribly wrong. He says by staying where you are you're aligning with the fascists, and you cannot begin to take on what such a friendship does to your soul.
By late afternoon you are desperate enough to ignore the ache in your knee and lace up your running shoes. The piers are gray and windy, only a handful of runners out, and you are glad for the peace. Each step unloads a burden, each quick breath fills you like a balloon. Manhattan lies across the water, colorless, quiet, awaiting your decisions. You wish it could tell you the future and make those decisions for you.
The first clover leaves have sprouted in the park.
It's about time I went searching for luck, again.
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