Beautiful Kat Black, spend your January days under the covers. I've jumped towards what feels like springtime but dies in the heart. Count days and I'll come back, because the Stock Exchange is in the lights at night, because the red line will draw you north, because I can feel the pavement frozen cold and it is warm, so warm underground.
I was writing, tapping really, on my way home to leave again. Thirty floors up, there were bankers, tapping and waiting too. There were icicles on the train grates, dripping fingers clinging to the greatest throbbing mechanical beasts of the back-and-forth, city to suburbs on my slow route to the dead zones. There are trains right now, maybe slow in the snow, running in to the city that works.
Downtown is alive, cold and busy, sharp and real like the South won't ever be for me. If I could stay, I would live in a room with low wooden shelves and memorize the north-south streets from west to the lake. If I were a little girl I would crane my neck and try see the top of the Tower (but I do anyway, for nostalgia and vertigo and the few things I can't outgrow). If we could talk about all your dark secrets we could be the best of friends, and if I were an El train, I could open up to the cold, descend to the warmth, and say, "This is Chicago. New Orleans is next."