Crosswalk.

Every night before I closed my curtains, I stared outside the window for some good minutes. Queensborough Bridge has less cars at night, and 55th street is filled with yellow and red car lights.

And I remember I am a human being standing in front of the window, who could be seen from the taxi driving across the East river. It was a dream to stand here and it was a choice to stare. Not many buildings are as tall as where my floor is, which makes everything smaller. And it seems like everything is in my hands.

But I don't know how to choose. Rather than the pain of letting bad things happen, the regret of uncertainty turning into projection is more lethal. It is a constant mind game that numbs your neurons and buries your memories. Only to find them coming stronger at you.

I've said hope is the most terrible thing, desperation is the cure to diseases. But no one swallows consequences without a why, which necessitates hope.

I am at the crosswalk every night.