just needed to get out, he says. feeling better now. he’s walking up the steps of the 21st street stop and the wind is coming down, the wind is coming down righteous and smooth and icy and whatever was behind him no longer is. he drags a shadow everywhere he goes and everything disappears, a good thing, the light is so bright on this side that the black is infinite on the other. no one’s back there, this isn’t happening. a woman walks her child up the steps and she’s wearing something sweet, watermelon or honey or rosewater and it rolls in waves through the air, collecting on the walls and sliding down them to the floor and rising back up again.

fan is whirring. i’m not here. shadows across the street. my vision is a portrait. i am here. writing this but not writing it. music is going in and out. coming back in through my headphones now. stronger. water on the bottom edges of my eyes. world is reeling. spinning backward but forward. i’m not here. hands aren’t mine. song is over. definitely here.