The best writing in the world, period. There is proof.
Apr. 15, 2003
volume i, issue xii
the end, we tell you
I hit the subway and head back towards central park.
Down the bike path, the water laps its salty tongue against the shoreline. I can't tell if the sea is stronger today, if or if it's just more nervous.
New York City is again on alert for terrorism. Cops line every other corner. Men in plain cloths stand in front of pizza shops with large, obvious ear pieces.
We've been issued a level four warning. I'm not sure what that means.
But the joggers don't seem to mind. The old men and their arms and stories don't seem to mind. The sunset doesn't stop its golden drapery. The buildings don't flinch in the stiff wind.
Just before the sun sets, it becomes golden, makes everything golden. The water is glassy gold. The grass is amber gold. The buildings are grey gold.
And in the morning, everything will be gold again. And again in the evening. Golden wheat, ground, gravel, heaven--
The sun is blinding. But I believe in a little blindness every now and then.
josh davis ©2003
new york and cubism