Sunday, November 30, 2014


Gray day, walking in my old neighborhood with Katie and her parents. We chat about the flea market we've just come from (another sign of the gentrification of this part of Brooklyn that I was the vanguard of six years ago), and how much things have changed.

Memories crop up cold and fall-ish in my brain, and I'm only listening with half an ear as I kick through the leaves that crowd the sidewalk next to the vacant, trash-filled lots impatiently awaiting their allotment of condos and coffee shops. I think of the loneliness I felt back when I lived here, the freedom, the depression, the sense of having done something irrevocable and dangerous and romantic, and a part of me wishes I was back there, alone and getting high, wallowing in the pain that I had created for myself.

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