When I walk from the stoop of my apartment with my luggage to the black cab it’s 4:30 am and it’s still dark and the only people I see from the East Village to the Williamsburg Bridge are drunk girls with muffin tops in pairs and single lonely men who are sleaze and the bums peppered around like cig butts, and that’s it. When I get a little bit out of the city the orange light from the sun is coming up from the bottom and I think, the day is coming. Like a tsunami. The day is coming!

That’s the absolute worst. When you leave the place you were and it’s still supposed to be that night but you hear the birds and you see the light coming up from the bottom and you think, Shit. And you start to get frightened about sleep, not being able to. And about everything. It’s not fun anymore.

When I’m alone. In a cab or waiting on a stoop at a weird time, when no one knows where I am or cares where I am, I can step out of my life and have a goddamn minute to reevaluate. It’s all moving too fast. It’s too much.

That’s what I was doing on my stoop face down on my luggage with one eye looking at the street sideways like that and the other eye on my bag, and I was watching the bag move ever so slowly with my breath. And I had a minute. When I was waiting for the black cab that would take me to the airport, to the next thing I had to do, when it was still the night before today.