It’s cold and dry. The rye is wet and warm. My hands will be cracking soon and the subway will feel less jungle, more dungeon, full of stone and steel and water dripping from somewhere again. Time between time gets shorter again. It starts and stops. The world spins like an old netflix movie. Sometimes it just doesn’t work. No red envelope, return postage paid, a new one in 3 days. This turnaround takes all year as it brags ownership with wind and rain. The rye stays faithful and the warmly dressed voices sound further away. 10 minutes more, and time starts again. I’ll take my flaming breath with me til we meet again my time.