this morning I woke up early enough to trace a rectangular patch of sun on the wall opposite to my bed.
it was a long, beautiful patch, grapefruit pink sun.
it’s one of my favorite things — to trace the sun, and how it paints the East River.
many days I feel held together with patches: dark ones, light ones, semi-translucent ones. many days it seems I am a patchwork quilt that’s been torn apart, each rag on the floor a time in my life when something so momentous happened that it ripped me into small pieces.
horatio is about something that happened one summer’s day on a street in the West Village.
I wonder how different my life would be if that day never happened. I wish I could hit the undo button on it, but I can’t.
there’s no point trying to fit the pieces back together the way they were just before. but maybe I can assemble them in a new way in my songs, and the new patchwork quilt will become me, as I it.

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