Returned from New Hampshire’s mountains to the city heat, and it took a moment to readjust to the sight of so many masked mouths after hiding in the woods. The remnants of a tropical storm blew through Manhattan’s canyons as I dropped the rental car in a parking garage over the Battery Tunnel. Walking home, I saw a tree splayed across First Avenue like a drunk. It felt like an ominous greeting.
Fired up the news for the first time in a few days. America’s coronavirus virus records continue to soar. The president commuted the sentence of another convicted friend, the one who wears a top hat and looks like a terrible cartoon.
There’s something oddly soothing about the sound of traffic peeling down wet streets on a rainy night, the way it sounds like little bursts of static in the dark.
