Sweat in the air

How do you know? Do you smell me in the wind? Have I begun to sweat already? It’s not even June yet but this is New York and there’s steam and strangers breathing from all directions, even above us. Skyscrapers, you know. Maybe I am sweating or maybe I’m just wearing that perfume again.


I’ve been thinking about magic again. Maybe I’m off my meds and telling stories again. I hope so. I’ve got another hundred pages to bust out before the end of the calendar year. It would be a rather fortunate circumstance indeed if my intentions and my symptoms worked in unison again.

I guess you have powers. The train that contained my evening was derailed as though your fingers operated the switches. Like some kind of fucked up trolley problem that freshmen college kids dream up. You didn’t show up to work at the station the next day, or the day after that, so it took about 72 hours for anyone to find where I landed. Somewhere in between Long Island and Connecticut on the lower deck of a boat.

It’s cold and it only smells like one thing here, even while people smoke cigarettes. We’ll have to see if you can smell me in the air next time. It’s the only way to verify the magic.

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