It is a lonely, starry night in New York City once again. I am ambling along on a boulevard, although they're never called that, when I realized what's been wrong with me for the past hour. It's stir crazy. I've never had this before. It's a mildly amusing feeling to look back on, but intensely irritating when you're gripped by its wrath. I feel like there's something to do, but I don't know what it is, like I must get out and accomplish something, but it's 1:30 on a Sunday (now Monday), and the stores are closed, the lights are out, and I feel like I'm the only one left alive in this god-forsaken hell hole we call the "evening."

But that's not fair. This is beautiful time again. I love the evening. I just find myself gripped by the dichotomy of my love and hate of it, of the fact that I do everything in the evening while the world does nothing. It's my most obvious reminder of my being out-of-step with the world, ever-so-slightly out-of-step, and my foot keep hitting the back of her shoe, but I can't seem to get myself aligned. Would I even want to? It's much more entertaining to see the dirty look on her face every time I make contact. I fear she may slap me, but I'd probably just get up, with a red mark and an apologetic grin, and remember to walk slightly to her left next time.

But I'm not walking anymore. I'm indoors, with a bright computer screen blinding my eyes (and probably giving me carpul tunnel). I want to walk. I want to be stepping on the heels of the world, and making her move to get aligned with me.