Canal Street, 9:48 p.m.

I am in a cab stalking through crosstown traffic. The cab, it seems, is running on impulse. Autopilot. The memory of happiness and feeling light but full. It makes its way west because it has no other choice, because it feels drawn to its destination, because there is nothing else for it to do but this. The cabbie remains oblivious. I am in the backseat.