I haven’t written anything in weeks. Not because I’m dry, but because I’m afraid of what will come out. Now, I don’t feel that same fear. Now I scribble down words of self-realization and fate, of regret and guilt, of lust and need. The raw taste of twilight. It sounds like a love song. But not about New York. About something New York possesses tonight. One single perfect thing that no other city on earth has. And he’s asleep in the next room. I realize it’s the first love song I’ve ever written.
