I took the subway to work this morning, got off at a stop I knew by heart, and walked into a building where the front desk has known me for years. After work, I hung out at a bar on the lower east side, then had dinner at a restaurant I’ve been to dozens of times before. My feet took me on autopilot back to the A train, back to my stop, up the stairs, down the street, around the corner and into my apartment.
But I don’t work here any more. I don’t live here any more. And the apartment is empty of everything but echoes.
That dream, the one where you’re walking around your grandparents house, but you keep coming into rooms that you don’t recognize, that are connected to the familiar by strange geometries? I think I’m inside it right now.