Red,
But we’ve been fine. We decided to stay in the city because of death and have felt rigor ever since. During the day we ride the bike and read the tiny books. Butterflies inside our ears. Crisp, cold mornings.
There’s this place in Brooklyn Heights called Grace Place. It’s pretty. A dead-end street with trees. They’re old as hell and they sing ancient, weird songs. You would like them. We dance there in the mornings when the birds start. Hips, mostly.
Today a man was there, just kind of leaning against the railing. We were like, Dude, come on, please, fuck off. We’ve been dancing here like this and looking out at the river for a couple mornings now, and they’ve been real-life important mornings. That’s to us.
But this man was, how do we say, the dude was dressed in blue. Like blue sweater, blue jeans. The river was greenish but his hat was blue. We locked the bike to the metal, walked away, and he said,
“This is the prettiest view in Brooklyn.” We kept walking. Yeah, man. Three steps, six, but then he was right. We realized this. Our ears hurt, they are burning. Just a little from we don’t even know what, the weather? The pressure. Perhaps it is the lack of it.
Our ears have been burning when we ride the bike but we think maybe it is because we don’t have to work. Like a diver coming up for air, or a mermaid growing legs. Something like it.
We walk back together to the rail, nodding, “You’re right,” and the blue man nodding back. We just look at the river, all of us together nodding. “It’s so green,” he says. “The prettiest view in Brooklyn.” He says this over and over again, and again, so we touch his chin with our little pinky ring.
“It’s Grace Court,” we say, “something little like that.”
“You’re right,” he says. “Man, I knew that.” He laughed out loud. He rose an arm over his head, then extended another. His hips bent, and I said, “Yeah, man, that’s it.”
Eventually he left and other men came out of this place as if nothing were the matter. We stood by watching it. There was a sudden exodus of felt. Couches, we don’t know. Fabric and wood. We didn’t know for how long we’d even been there watching. But during the perfect time we just kind of get back on the bike and ride away with all of it. And this happens a lot now. Nearly every morning. Sometimes, this is the way it is at night.
We laugh a lot more, it’s fun and sad. A lot of people are going to die and we forget about that constantly. Hopefully by the end we will help us realize the system can be changed, that we can help it all to be different. That nothing is real, that music tastes good, and the air.
I don’t know. I love you. The river is green and soon the revolution will be too.
Until after,
Dyl