I am home.
Yesterday morning I got up very early to go for a run before my ride to the airport.
It seemed that at 4 in the morning on Sunday, people were just coming home from the Saturday night bars.
I ran past a fistfight in the middle of 8th Avenue.
It was actually a small-scale war, I think, because there were at least eight guys involved in the fighting, and each of them had flanks of supporters shouting encouraging slogans from the sidewalks.
That is what friends are for, I think.
When the police drove onto the scene, their lights made the whole area look like a disco from hell.
Then everyone started running.
Did I mention I was running, too?
Because everyone started running in my direction.
The cops did not run so fast.
Further on, down in Chelsea, I ran past an old storefront where, for a nominal fee, one could purchase a psychic reading.
The building had caught fire and burned a couple nights before.
While I was in New York, I met several people for the first time with whom I had had many written correspondences.
I was fascinated by the expectations I'd developed concerning voice.
Do people, in general, communicate with sound the way they communicate with writing? I tried to see if the expectations I'd developed about how my friends would say things - as opposed to writing them - would be accurate.
Anyway, I found myself thinking about that idea for some time.
It was an interesting trip.
