NYC Diary #54

MONDAY

8:21 a.m. I google pics of the Brat Pack. Jerk off. Go to yoga. Email with a bunch of agents. Remember how Spinoza said time is just things hitting each other. Smoke half a cigarette. Lose three pounds. (Someday my entire body.)

And: a shattered vase on the sidewalk at 85th and Broadway. And: a text from some blond twink that makes me scroll up to find a photo. Hey, he says. I’m XX now. And I say happy birthday. And he starts typing but doesn’t say anything back. I don’t remember him. I haven’t touched anyone in weeks.