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26 Leaving New York Sunday morning on the downtown F. A puddle of vomit coats the seat beside you. When you see it you move to a seat by the window and the city’s streets stretch before you like small black scars crawling towards water. You danced right there till four in the morning. Sobered on homefries at your local diner. Walked along the promenade and thought of your body, its fall onto traffic, would it flail and jump? Now copters circle, ships pull cargo and lines of graffiti climb in the window as you sink beneath Brooklyn, trapped as an echo. When memory rises you know you can’t hold it; you’re moving to the shore of an unknown coast. But you made the most of it. Now the change you begged for on cold street corners comes. ...


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