The Long Walk Home

My route, each night, is unchanged. I leave the office, walk north on 7th Avenue until it merges and crosses over Broadway at 42nd Street. At this point I stick to the east side of the are, walking north along Broadway.

I do this every night after work, unless it's pouring. Then I take the subway or a cab (depending on the time).

Anyway, I did this last night, as always and I was somewhat surprised by the number of people on the street. Tourists everywhere. Fuck, people everwhere. It made my bobbing and weaving more difficult and I wound up with a few too many "I'm sorrys" after an errant elbow or shoulder bump.

As I exited the shower this morning, I turned on the news. The first story was about the 4 separate shootings on 7th Avenue last night.

2 people shot in Herald Square. That'd be the area around Macy's. Well, gee, that's across the street.

The other 2 were shot in the 40's and 50's along 7th Ave. In other words, right along my normal route.

Granted, the shootings ocurred after I had passed through but one of them was early enough that, on any other night, I might have been there.

That's fucked up.

On a side note, the desire to continue the drama with "the twins" is gone. I was going to take pictures of my hands, with gloves and without, post em for Trent, and talk about how my twins were refusing to let me go back to my normal life with my wife and kids but, well, to be totally honest, I just don't have it in me.

I've lost my sense of humor and my sense of fun.

The work and the stress of finishing this shit on time is, for the first time in my life, weighing down on me. It's an odd feeling and I'm trying to figure out how best to understand and deal with it.