Mulling

Softly rained upon night-time, air moving cool on my skin: face, hands, neck. The coquettish sky promises glimpses of star-pricked stratosphere in between the cloud. To anyone inside, the garden behind the hostel is invisible in the darkness. To me, the grass – and the single, monstrous tree – breathes relieved wetness. Because I can, and because, despite loose acquaintances, I haven’t made friends here, I’m standing alone on a lichened wooden picnic table at midnight, smoking a cigarette and idly browsing the yellow-lit windows.

New York lends itself to these contemplative fugues. The city’s an immense entity, and it pretends to not care a jot if you wander about it thinking deep thoughts at night. I think I can feel it paying attention, though; the gentle weight of it is just at my back.

I play along and ignore it. I watch the people indoors do what people indoors do; and I watch the rats, and I watch the roaches, and I chain-smoke and talk to the lonely tree.