Late train lullaby and spilled tea
The xx's intro folded into the rattle of the F as I walked from Jay to DUMBO, clutching a cup of black tea that cooled faster than I liked. A barista's flourish on the cup made me smile—handwriting that held a pose—and the bronze spoon in my pocket gave its familiar, grounding jolt.
In the studio the lights stayed low and the acid pens kept their tiny fires. Fingers stained with ink, I traced the skyline by touch first, then by sight, remembering how breath and balance teach every line. If someone pauses at the door, maybe they'll stay to watch how the light catches a shoulder; that's the kind of attention that feels like choreography.
In the studio the lights stayed low and the acid pens kept their tiny fires. Fingers stained with ink, I traced the skyline by touch first, then by sight, remembering how breath and balance teach every line. If someone pauses at the door, maybe they'll stay to watch how the light catches a shoulder; that's the kind of attention that feels like choreography.
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