As I set my book aside and climb out of bed to cross the room to my desk, I glance at the open window. It’s nearly 1AM, yet my room is cushioned with a comfortable warmth, like the complimentary dinner rolls you get at nicer restaurants. As I’m standing in a pair of old basketball shorts, a baggy T-shirt, and my shower sandals from college, I feel as if it were still August 2011. The month I moved here: the bewilderment and amazement at the God-awful weather, the newfound freedom of being on my own, the anxiety about how I would survive my first year at an Ivy League graduate school, and the cuffing pull of solitude, no–loneliness, that one can only truly feel in a big city. The burning red leaves, the perpetuity of naked branches, the blindingly blooming flowers all wisp by into thin air. The older I age, the more I lose Time.

There is never quiet outside. The soft, continuous whirring of electricity.


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