emery’s Reviews > By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept > Status Update

I am dying for love. This is the language of love.

The grass is already green in the country. My imagination clutches that fact like a hot-water bottle, and makes itself dopey with it, and uses it like a drug to ease my heart and quiet all my sources of unrest. My future is already planted there, and my hope getting ready to sprout with the cherry blossom.

For who plans suicide sitting in the sun?

I will comfort you. I can carry love like Saint Christopher. It is heavy, but I can carry it. It's the stones of suspicion I stumble on. Did I say suspicion? No.
No. No. I's nothing. I love you. A slight feeling of nausea, that's all.
After a while I got out into the open air, and his face was the moon hanging in the snowy branches.

The faces, the faded houses, the autumn air, everything is omens of promise to the prodigal. But leaning against the train window, drunk with the hope which anything so unbegun always instils, I remember my past returnings: keep that vision, I pray, pressing my forehead against the panes:

here is no underlining of an accidental picturesqueness, but a waiting, unself-conscious as the unborn's,