The Same Sound Every NightKrystal Languell
Am I elegant and unemployed? Yes, and this season is meant for my looking out from rooftops, for spreading out on a picnic blanket myself. I cut through the park carrying a bag of tangerines, a carton of blueberries that would be expensive back home. I can walk around here all day eating fruit, watching various creatures approach their warren, their burrow at homecoming up the escalator to buses with broken headlights. The long commute home is compelled by some instinct I have not yet cultivated. Certainty was supposed to come on the evening of Manhattanhenge. My friend called and said I should be able to see the sun from where I was. An epiphany is something that happens to you when the sunset lines up with the street grid. I couldn’t find the horizon, though I walked fast until the warehouses turned gray at the north tip of Greenpoint. Time is titanic; it is night already and the neighborhood kids go on kiwi-eating as I walk home. Music plays, but the lights are out—a circuit is blown and I still hear the same sound every night. I aspire to heal bruises with oranges alchemically, alone as if I am the only unpossessable and blue one.
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