In New York, I am crowded by past lives. On Saturday night I wander past by the shitty apartment I lived in when I was 21 then another I lived in when I was 23. The street is covered in trash. There are no leaves on the trees. I see old friends who I knew from a job 10 or 15 years ago. I go to a bar that exists briefly, vaguely in my memories, like visiting an old dream.
There is so much poetry in here.