Two days left in New York City. Highs in the fifties and the sun went down at 4:29pm—one more minute of daylight. Tonight the moon is waxing. These days I spend most of my time frowning at objects once happily forgotten in the shadows beneath my bed or the back of my closet. Now I’m dragging them squinting into the light, and they seem to shiver in my hand, awaiting judgment. An ill-fitting sweater. A box of cables for god only knows. My mother’s grade-school report card (straight A’s except for gym).
Walking around the city, I passed long lines for COVD-testing. They wrapped around the corner and all the way down the block. Then I went for my last run through Central Park. I’ll miss the cinematography of the experience, the hyper-mediated sensation of running through a location defined by the movies. But I’m also looking forward to running through dull terrain where people aren’t taking pictures or getting married and my thoughts are mine alone. I’m craving the boring sublime.
At the coffeeshop, I listened to two men discuss investing in ammonia, how the price had tripled, and they’re going to be so rich by the end of the pandemic. I wanted to tell them nothing ever ends; it just piles up. The proof is under my bed and in the back of my closet.
