Biking through graveyards puts you in touch with the past. Spirits rise around you. Above, the sun catapults through dirt and fumes to create an orange blue fuzz. The bikepace is slow and steady enough to keep the heart pumping but your shirt or brow dry. And after dinner and talk, reassuring sympathetic talk , talk directed back on each other, the adventure cools and time spent is now what’s worthwhile. Time spent is together and binding and the work of getting home is enough to make you satisfied with your day. That sky that orange blue fuzzy sky and the cool May breeze blowing through the elm branches made it of a different kind.
Brooklyn’s neigborhoods are all braided together. It’s easy to get lost in the folds, like a meaty vagina. You may deem it uncouth to write such a description in classic literature, but that’s the most apropos description of what Brooklyn’s folds are like. Because pretty soon you’re lost and going farther in the wrong direction. By the time you get back to the right direction you’re surprised, surprised you didn’t take the first route when you had the chance. Like a meaty vagina.
Post postmodernism. Bitch.