I loved the abandoned subway stations, rushing past the darkened platforms, the sprawl of graffiti like old letters. Letters left by ghosts.

I have forgiven Sonora. I have forgiven New York, forsaken the recursion of history. But I do not yet know how to forgive myself.

I slowly lost any dream for myself. No one warned me of this, that the stars in New York can infect the light inside, that they can trap you in their shadow. Dylan was of course a star. He had achieved the thing we all came to New York wanting.

When I returned to New York, it had already changed. I always wished things could just remain.

The instruments were all half desired, half forgotten. It was as if they were left behind by a ghost right in the middle of playing.

I first understood why Christians prayed for a savior in the form of a beautiful man. He had absolved me of the blue-streaked blond.

I thought he had come to save my life.

I called Eli. I asked him to come save my life.

You know the most common phrase in the movies is 'let's get out of here?