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March 30, 2002
I walk through Greenpoint and am delighted at the Polish shops, the church scrubbed and freshly painted for the holiday weekend, the warm sunlight on my face is as glorious and unexpected as yesterday was. I arrive at Penn just in time to catch a train home, nothing wasted there. I should be exhausted but am only replete. It is a slow day, completely slow, yet it passes too quickly to suit me.
Later, he appears to be trying to retreat, gain some distance, perhaps to fathom it. Yet I won't let him walk away from it. Not this time.