Underground. Follow the scent of fresh city air. Sunlight crawling into your eyes. A sculpture. You wish you brought your sketchbook.
Crappy bacon egg and cheese. Time to explore. On a mission. What was it? Shoulder bump, sidewalk crack. One side other side. The street moves underneath you, your feet making the world go ‘round. Is that Walgreens open?
Now you’re on the other side of the street. Still in Manhattan, probably. A stray Panera Bread. A razor in a store window. Jump up and down. You’re not moving, the ground is. Hold on to your vision with sweaty hands.
Underground, but not a train station. Kiosks and seizure lights, pressing buttons but you can’t see the screen. You just bought a subway ticket to Broadway-Lafayette.
The cool air tickles your face as you climb outside. Into your ears, shirt, fingernails, lungs. You rest your shoulder on the side of a building. You wake up to watch someone urinate in a telephone booth. 7:29 PM. 8:29. Your friend gets a hotdog. This time, you let your stomach lead the expedition. The Panera Bread is closed now. You pass a Five Guys and the trash bag outside of it. It’s open. The trash bag, not the restaurant. You just head back to the train station. 1:36 AM.
Somehow you end up where you started.