“Hey buddy, do you know the way to the Jefferson YMCA?”
“Yeah, this is Washington, Jefferson is two streets over that way, back in that corner.”
The mystery of one way streets. Once you go down one it’s hard to go back and find your way again. And if you don’t have the web of roads memorized, it’s almost impossible to give anyone else directions.
One of the weirdest feelings in the world is looking at a bar in the morning. The air has the empty, still calm of the morning—a hangover moment that makes you feel like you should be eating breakfast.
In the shade, the air is too cold for the number of layers I have on. But in the sun, it’s shockingly calm and peaceful, the perfect temperature for being quiet.
I am a monk of the modern world, walking to the store to get a copy of The New York Times. The streets are a contemplative cloister of concrete and empty benches that afford the chance to rest.