If We Are Sleeping

Harlem Shakes, Valentine's Day, Southpaw

In Brooklyn, I have heard, there are legions of people like us: the kind of people about whom great big books are written, or who inspired now faded murals, the people who become the subjects of big Broadway shows because they are the ones, at various points in time, who wrote them. Dreamers, never really unemployed because always scheming something, always engaged, never bored, never sleeping very long, and when they do, doing it in the most rewarding way they possibly can, at whatever cost because now at least, costs can't be that high and benefits, they can be immeasurable.

(Harlem has the largest cathedral in the world. It's not finished.)

I tripped over the frame of a couch left in a shadow on the street and despite every effort could not help my body from landing flat on the ground. It was Valentine's Day. Somewhere around the single-minded swaying inspired by the song "Winter Water," the pain in my knee faded like a shirt. A mural. Probably a coincidence.