Odilia Rivera Santos
A glorious morning: the sun streaming in, a light breeze through my orange curtains, Milton Nascimento serenading me and a feral dog barking outside. It is spring in New York and despite the outrageous train delays when one person has the hiccups and all trains are rerouted due to a 'sick passenger' thereby making hundreds of people late and despite the types who compete even in the corpse pose during yoga class and the títeres who spend their days being títeres, and despite the crowds who endanger tourists and walking meditators with their overtraining in Central Park on Sunday afternoon, and despite the multitudes of funk we experience as stray fluids defrost and our diversity of summer stenches comingle, New York City is a glorious beautiful place. Upon feeling that light on my face and the soft voice of Mr. Nascimento, my first urge is to comb the naps out of my hair and step outside to inhale it all. It is such a peaceful morning, I decide to step out only a little bit - to the terrace where I can look at other people's gardens and imagine kissing a lover's hands.
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