Yesterday morning against the bite, a woman waited on a concrete stoop, cigarette viced in one hand and a styrofoam cup in the other. Her body, covered in red-knit, weaved back and forth to her own music. or high. or crash.
When we were in NYC on our way home from the wedding, I passed a homeless man and woman waiting outside a Port Authority BrewPub. The man was gnawing on a leftover T-Bone steak – bloody juice running down his hands, he held the bone between his fingers like a ballast.
My eyes are dry today, two tangerines growing soft in decay. This morning one of our sports writers passed away – or is he still here? I’m not sure. They were taking him off life support this morning after he suffered a massive stroke and wasn’t suspected to recover. He was 67, just finished a late-night shift when his body broke. He was the old guy in the office – people gave him shit all the time because he never got comfortable with computers and asked a lot of questions. But there’s nothing wrong with not wanting to learn all this crap – what does it get us? Connection sure, but to bytes and light we can’t hold on to.

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