On FDR Drive, I took a picture of some balloons, tied together and forgotten, drifting towards the highway.

I bought a coffee this afternoon, and it’s sitting near my bed, still untouched, this evening.

The kittens have decided my window is the best window, and demand to be let in in the early morning to perch on my side table, abandoned by a housemate in my last and final Upper West Side apartment.

The section of the book I’m writing now is scary and scary and scary and I don’t know who to tell about it, so I’m telling you.



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