Thought: this type of writing will never earn me any money. Stop.
It's quiet in our shoebox. You can hear the neighbors opening cupboards, playing pranks on each other, or holding jam sessions. Last night at midnight there was a 'police raid' on the apartment next door, to the East. (Men's combat boots, worn out. Vintage. Laces freshly pressed.) Tonight, there's a live music jam box going on in the apartment to our north. (Pair of women's heels, platform. Black pleather. Strappy.) And suddenly it hits me that New York City is a live hopping city. This is why no one has a TV but why people write novels here and why people come here to be in bands or make music, or spend a life exploring the arts scenes or to talk or to get lost in the subways or to come down off of luck and plunder the depths of compassion on the A line from Fulton to Jay Street. Because there's a passion in the air and the opportunities are boundless and the only one singing sad songs and stories of could haves and would haves are saps and soul suckers and they don't last long here.
Where do you fit in brown pair of mary jane loafers with turqouise tassels and exquisite, hand cut pleating on the sides. All leather. Soft, but good for walking along riverbanks, alone.
There's a mouse in our apartment. His name is Fred Wilson, like the VC. His name was to just be Fred but my brain kept going and it just stuck. F red wils on. He's cheeky, comes out to play at strange times, no wariness in his step, but definitely a cautious creature. He has yet to broach the perimeter that seems to exist in a 10 foot radius from my personage (person of age, pears aged, an aged 'hood).
Nervous because living is performing is to be asking for judgement. Someday I may tell someone about Fred. In the meantime, we're working on our interpersonal communication skills, especially the non-verbal category. It's not what you say. It's how you say it.
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