It’s one of those rare, sought-after nights in my neighborhood. A light snowfall, and the sky does its disappearing act. The cathedrals and brownstones cut severe outlines against the negative space, illuminated by white reflecting off white. And I get to jog on the side streets, my tank somewhere between half and “F” on red wine.
I’m warm for a change, insulated by my headphones. I can’t hear anyone except Plastic Bertrand shouting gibberish in French (or any language), and the voice of this cd’s curator sweetly mispronouncing my last name. And as I race toward my apartment and all the carbohydrates it stores, I look up at the missing sky, and keep repeating a separate chorus, the one I made up just now: Tonight is another good night to start again. And I don’t care that I’ll wake up tomorrow, hung-over and regretting the majority of these words. If you don’t believe me, move to New York City.
