-- the number of the apartment in which I've been spending many an evening here in New York. Last night, for instance, I walked uptown immediately after work. The next time I looked up, my belly was full of pasta and homemade sauce, brie and freshly baked raisin bread, and several glasses of delicious red wine; my heart ached from laughing; my head drifted upon the breath of a new perspective; and the Manhattan skyline twinkled below us, along with the distant river.
I've made great friends this summer: some from scratch, some deepening with time. These are people who challenge me, inspire me, make me laugh, and are opening my mind in ways I hadn't anticipated.
I've discussed the problem of oppression at the nexus of race and gender by the side of a Scarsdale pool as I nibbled homemade lemon squares (gluten-free and 50% raw, of course, ha!).
I've danced into the dawn alongside sister-friends, deep in the heart of the East Village, feeling our bond reignite as we shared this new city together.
I've sampled new brews in local bars while discussing the intricacies of hedge funds, which I still do not understand. Turns out, neither does he who works for said hedge fund. But of course.
I've debated the importance of divergent personal philosophies in the realm of love with a colleague during our lunch break in Bryant Park. And I've mastered the best cooking methods for crafting curry Udon. And I've explored one of the most incredible private collections of art I've seen.
No literature or poetry in this post. Just life. That of which every piece of writing is made. Off I go to gather some more raw material --
L
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