There is life down here;
a teeming, delicate microcosm.
I move like a leaf blowing across an empty street
to my always transient destination
with the hot, thick air in my lungs
as I toy with perfecting that New York walk.
you know the one,
no contact
weaving through the walking dead
like a needle which desires the finished stitch
more than the hand pushing it through fabric;
yet I'm tethered to nothing
unchained
until my fucking blackberry catches a signal.
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