Maybe I’m in a Murakami novel. Maybe I never got off that train in Japan. Maybe this is enough, I think, as I sit on a subway, contemplating my disappearing cat, my disappearing lover, eating a sandwich, my bags all shuffled like a chaotic orchestra. Maybe there’s death to be had. Maybe there’s morning that has yet to be sipped. Maybe there is a transcendentalism to bingewatching television. I am bingewatching people in the park. I am closing all of the garage doors to my emotional relevancy. Maybe I never left the city. Maybe the city is in me, a creature of habit, half asleep on a train that goes in circles beneath the novel of my moment.
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