Bellevue gate, New York City
My mind is like the emergency room at Bellevue on Friday night: There are men in orange jumpsuits and chains being led down long corridors by multiple policemen; there are degenerate drunks – dirty and forlorn, punched out on their final ticket; there are the addicted to god-knows-what and you-name-it, despairing that the last dose didn’t do the trick; there are the physically sick who know the final breath is upon them; the mentally impaled who court defeat and the sublimely despondent who wander perilously close to “normal” then back away for fear it becomes a reality.
All those souls; lost, seeking, sick, wanting, wishing, waiting… for me to grant them entry into a story – any story – before the final throes of obsolescence descends. They all pine for redemption or revelation, or a final reckoning and never relenting, they pursue me into the night, never letting me blink in peace or put away my pen.
So yes, sometimes my mind does wander…