Morning commute via Manhattan Bridge as the snowstorm grays out the world, and we hang suspended in the emptiness of fog, passing over nothing, through nothing, going from nowhere into nowhere. I consider our passage across the void past my reflection in the subway window while Elie Goulding sings at the center of my skull and all my chakras light up like I'm the only source of illumination in the world.
Coming back at night, same bridge, storm almost done, I'm listening to some Brooklyn art-rock band, and the visible world, grainy, exhausted, and solemn in the aftermath of the storm, slows down to accommodate the soundtrack of ambient swoosh. A boat passes beneath, parting the turbid East River and Brooklyn rises to meet us, empty and muted and white.
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