24 hours. but who's counting?

i took the train up to broadway late this afternoon to go to the capezio store. while packed against the other bodies of rush hour, there was a familiar smell. cinnamon. i looked down to see a woman seated gnawing on a toothpick, the kind with a ridge at the end. smell is such a strong sense related to memory. it made me glad i never had a t-shirt or scarf or pillowcase or something. just be out on the curb with everything else. this way nothing's really been infiltrated. my room is hundreds of miles away, touched; virgin. something that's totally mine, a thing you can't ruin, a new life with new memories and new songs and new places, totally totally untouchable to you. save, of course, for your presence. a ridiculous mention. ridiculous, so ridiculous that i entertained even for a moment that i'd ever gaze off the balcony at the empire state building accompanied. i bought a leotard, tights and split-toed canvas ballet slippers. tomorrow i have to figure out how to sew the elastics on the shoes, otherwise i'd start ballet class tomorrow. it'll be wednesday instead. i shopped for groceries in the neighborhood and made tacos too heavy on the olives and cilantro [this i know is what anyone would say about me]. tomorrow i'm gonna go spy on a bed. this room considerably uncooperative with a queen-sized bed, let alone a queen-sized air mattress. i'm reading again, too. new life, new activities right? ballet and my antonia.