Irene Han ____________________________________ On E. 60th Street When I was turned away from a matinee— “Who goes to the movies at 4pm on a Tuesday?” –the teller says: “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not more special than anyone else.” It’s rush hour: everyone’s leaving, yellow cabs line up in a row, standstill traffic. I watch the day wind down from the second floor of an obscure building. Wind and rain alternate in unpredictable succession. On the inside, the outside world seems to unfold on a distant screen. The sound of blazing sirens and desire fires away. And yet, the edge appears closer. Dreaming of the end, through clarifying high windows, I see the beginning.
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