what better can we do...

I feel dead.

But it’s not as dramatic as all that.

I reconnected with somebody last week with whom I had not spoken in eight years. She had a severe impact on my life, back then. What matters to you, likely, nobody else remembers.

It goes that way.

I ended up in Westchester with Mike on Sunday, which was a nice respite from my life. Those were the best hours; the last, though, are always clocks ticking. People who see you every day take so much of you for granted. They don’t ever see you walk away. They don’t see you drifting. It’s in the periphery.

I think only strangers really look at you anymore. Like babies, they don’t know any better.

“Oh my god,” said a man on the train in Hartsdale yesterday. “You look like Debbie Harry.”