Wednesday, January 8, 2014


They've taken all the apples in from the outside stands at the bodega on 7th Avenue, but the tattered hand-lettered signs still remain, selling fall's last macouns and braeburns (more likely galas and mealy red "delicious"). In their place are a few paltry bundles of firewood, wrapped in stretchy yellow plastic stacked where fruit should go, tossed around and lonely.

The cold is all anybody talks about, because it's all one can think about when confronted with the sheer, overwhelming physical monstrosity of it, hunched over the city, fangs bared. I'm wrapped in layer upon layer (upon (layer)), and still I can feel tiny patches of exposed skin begin to crystallize and die in the short walk from the subway to the blessed warmth of home

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