Bed-Stuy

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Thunder fades into the sound of fireworks, muted into one another, the lights of the Freedom Tower are visible now against the sky, a muted rainbow sky, dark clouds low, a charcoal smear tests stop the Empire State. The sticky sweet of rain still rests against your skin, soggy. Car alarms and sirens a background orchestra, but there are trees here, too, shadows of leaves that dance across your window, casting reflections the mix with the bars of the fire escape, city, city, nature, city. Strange collisions and mixings. It’s nice to be able to see trees. Trees grow in Brooklyn and in Manhattan, too. So does connection, so does grief and loss and anxiety and belonging.

Two random thoughts: The subway isn’t a solace and is mostly a pain in the ass, but I don’t miss driving like I thought I would. They don’t make thunderstorms in the west like they do here. Thunder? Fireworks? Gunshots? The real American questions as Fourth of July draws near. This is a city of anxieties and revelations and sometimes strange joys and of seeing your neighbor who probably came from a different county than you and wondering what right you have to walk down the street so easily compared to them, and wondering at the same time why you can’t walk alone at night but others have that luxury. The air smells clean, like rain on pavement and the smell of marijuana only lingers a bit from the window beneath the roof, a tinge of cool a relief from the heat that is beginning to settle like hot breath over the entire city.

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