A man sweeping up trash told me I was beautiful, and it made me happier than it should, as though I'd been waiting to hear it my whole life.
I climbed slick stairs that delivered me into the guts of New York, the same way that hundreds of thousands of humans are puked up onto the city's streets from the bowels of the subway system below.
I thought of all I have, all the love. I have so many things that are not owed to me. How did I get them? And why don't they make me like myself? How is devotion so much weaker than habit?
I watched a man with a sad face put a giant fake head over his own. He is an unsanctioned Olaf, a man in a suit who pretends to have magically stepped out of a Disney movie and onto the streets of Manhattan, but really he is a low-wage worker trying to make ends meet. I wonder if he hates the children he poses with for cash. I wonder if he has kids of his own and if he hates them, too. I wonder how many jobs he tried to get before buying a costume.
His furry fake head was soaked with rain, the soggiest snowman that ever lived. We met eyes before he disappeared into someone else.
I wanted to cry and cry and cry.