Well done keeping to my promises. Rather than writing once a week, minimum, I've managed (unintentionally) to bookend the month of February.

This is an excerpt from my own mind. It is translated into the third person, to make it sound much more dramatic than it otherwise would:

He's thinking that when he walks alone through the city, and he does walk alone often, mostly to work and back from work, that he sees everything through a lens of whipping-cream-thick irony. He doesn't know this (how can we ever be certain!) but he suspects it. The awe of midtown which aroused him last year in some terrific way feels dull. Midtown, slim and tall in a black gown. Her hulking scyscrapers, the motion of everything, the appearance that everyone is dressed up to conduct important business, doesn't strike him like it did when he came up for the day from the little place with the quaint brick buildings, as he did, to ride elevators to way up high floors and sit in rooms with big windows listening to people talk fast and preparing to recite rehearsed and hopefully impressive white lies. Who taught him to think that way? Who changed his context, mid-stride?

To be continued when I don't have to run and eat Cookie Cake for Eric's birthday!!...