I had a feeling of homesickness right then. I felt strange when I got home, putting my key into the lock that lets me into my Manhattan box of space, and keeps out all of the other people who live in other boxes past other locks, or who sleep in the pee-filled park nearby, with piles of newspapers and stained blankets and dirty clothes on the sidewalk underneath them. In the woods the light was patchy and dappled, I kept thinking that New York City looked like that once, with old-growth trees everywhere. There were big parties with firebreathers and fireworks, and visible stars, and beers with dangerous-sounding names - Homewrecker. I left the city last weekend, and stayed at my friend’s place up north for a few days. Odds are, like a jockey gone to slop,/ There’s skip and nimble in me yet, /There’s a length of neck to stake, and there’s cunning, /And there’s an animal under me running, /Which, if I can hold on, will not stop.” I’m waiting for the A train, reading Osip Mandelstam on the hot platform.
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