Boston, 4 a.m.

July 10, 2017

 

It's been almost three months since I've written here in a real capacity which I'm sure has made no one feel let down. I have, however, been writing a bit more voraciously in my personal diary. Mostly the entries are my day's boorish musings or a lackluster replacement for a therapist. Sometimes, though, they're these little vignettes of my travels, and I might let you in on one of these while I continue to put off a number of other blog ideas that have been percolating. Who knows, this might become a regular occurrence. Please pardon the messy script and punctuation; I've always been a write first, clean later sort of person (many of the love letters I offer end up being second or third drafts before they get sealed and sent). First will be a text copy with minor corrections and following, if you prefer reading handwriting, will be a photo of the entry.

 


July Ninth, 2017

flying Boston to Pittsburgh

 

You can stand outside on a street-corner in those hours that define both the end of a person's night and the beginning of a person's morning and learn that Boston sleeps. At four a.m., Boston sleeps soundly. The hotel that hosted last night's wedding after-party sits silent without a bellhop, a concierge, or even a front desk attendant. You can pick your way through its innards unnoticed as though through the dead hulk of a yet-to-be-animated golem. The entrance you are used to has a placard indicating it is closed, but it is not locked. The air is warm, certainly more-so than the chill breath pumping through the building's arteries. Standing on the corner, luggage in hand and waiting on a taxi, you might think they resigned themselves with the last of the wedding's revelers. As the frivolity died down, so, too, did the fares dry up. Standing there, in the dimness of a city holding her breath for reanimation from her little death, you can wonder how long the joviality of last night's vows really lasted. The elevators gave safety to gossip while the festivities roared, and you can remember misery visits us all eventually. As the headlights finally stream over your isolated form and you make sharp banter over smooth Portuguese vocals, you can remember, too, that frivolity and joviality have their season, and that season can always be now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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