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Where Do I Find A Remedy?
Haven’t we all an illness?
New York is where the world comes together to stand on street corners, under scaffold-covered walkways, carrying their hopes to Central Park. There is talk of mystery. You must not listen to inquiries about me from people unless you are sure they are my genuine friends and are not hostile to my way of life.
I’ll not look back, wave, or wish I was staying. America didn’t catch me editing my life for anything longer than I’ve given. The strangest thing I said all weekend was not written, tapped out in Morse code, or implied. A waiter asked if I was expecting someone. I said: Ghosts. It must have unnerved him; he never returned. I like saying certain words aloud.
They are unambiguous.
No one in New York, San Francisco, or anywhere has been told I will return. Those who live and work under cranes, walk down scaffold-built passageways, or work in offices high enough to be vulnerable will not miss me, perhaps because I never said to them, "Here I am. Were you expecting someone different?"
I’m taking everything of value in my soul, mind, or being, something of San Francisco, maybe, to show that I had dreams in far-off places.
I am deeply moved and touched that anyone thinks I shy away from my reality, especially in New York, where…
