Remember the simple days? Right, neither do I. There was a month tucked in the volumes of time, when I used to bike in circles around Prospect Park, pick up a few books at the Brooklyn Library, then meditate on text as if the concept of time didn't exist. New York felt deeply deeply real. Beijing is fiction at work. I can almost write a novel from a night's worth of text messages and expressions. Of this cast, I just never thought I'd ever become a character myself. I almost wish I could bring a camera to my face, and scrutinize the instant when I say things like: "Please don't stand so close to me. I need at least this much space." I wonder what that face looks like after a series of yawns and forced perkiness, then collapsing in one stroke, I laughed and cried at the same time, in that quiet space amongst the cold crowds. I hate faces that return a look of absolute understanding, and maybe worse, affection. Because don't you understand that this is a melodrama and no rom-com. Please don't return recklessness with a look benevolence. Someday this beauty, this intelligence, this craziness will all fade, and so too will this benevolence and affection and this...
I was in a car going to work when I saw this beautiful little girl today, and when I smiled at her she smiled back with the most heartbreaking smile and she started waving and kept on waving until we lost each other at the bend.
Life, baby girl, is good.