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December 10, 2003
Blue man.

There seem to be always thinkers on the benches between the lanes of Broadway. Not thinkiers? Oh, they certainly are.
Maybe this is the place to be. But in the morning?, when the temperatures are near the freezing point? A man in a large blue jacket is staring at traffic going uptown. He must be cold, he must be cold, I am cold looking at him... Maybe it is not his choice to sit there? Maybe he does not feel cold? Maybe he is not sitting there at all?
I push myself against the glass to see the street moving with early morning new yorkers right underneath my adopted feet. The glass is so cold that the plants are avoiding it. I leave little cloud shapes on the view.
There are footsteps in the snow on the roof of Chase Manhattan Bank across Broadway.
A woman waiting for a bus does not realize that her silhouette looks like the shape of a bird... just from here, perhaps. This is made even more apparent by a pigeon performing a seduction dance behing her, without her knowledge, maybe without the pigeons knowledge as well.
My head is muddy, it is that muddy seriousness that follows an evening spent with water that has traveled through too many machines and processes and filters and things... what a perfect mood to write a really bitter story.
The man is gone. I will go and get some breakfast downstairs.

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