You step off the Red Line into blue sky and cherry blossoms. A city so clean it hurts your teeth. You never thought collapse could be this crisp. Never knew falling apart could taste like spring.
Outside a loading dock in the Meat Packing District: a friend finishes his cig – flicks the butt out onto cobblestone and says; ‘‘Everything ends.’’
The dirt. The hustle. The grind. The city slaps the crusty black scab on the blind side of your life. You build something inside this lover that makes you smile: high enough to feel the shimmer, low enough to taste the sweat.Lose that and a part of you goes with it. Twenty-three stories. You could’ve felt the smack of cracked pavement slimy with old gum, spit, and wet newspapers.
People think they hit bottom.
Another friend, sitting in the comfort of a velvet recliner says, ‘‘There is no bottom.’’
You start the long walk down 17th Street Northwest to Constitution Avenue. Blue sky and cherry blossoms. Buildings shiny like new dentures. You think: Politics.Espionage. Diplomats. You show your new ID to the guard who scrutinizes the data; then, lets you pass under the marble epiglottis, through the buzzing metal doors, and into the endless grey corridors beyond.
— by Terry Golob