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I’ve only ever been to New York City once. One winter weekend, a handful of dice, shaken and tossed, landing haphazardly on the street corners all over Manhattan, jaywalking, jaywaiting, boarding the ferry in the cold.

I left LaGuardia a little cynical. Loved the people, of course, my dear friends, no doubt. Could have taken the city minus a whole handful of unlikes, maybe in a smaller chunks; maybe without the something sour in my mouth.

This world is cyclic, as much as I try to dodge the around-again.  Took twelve months for another go-round, to gamble big-city style with confidence. 

Adrenaline courses through my veins, poisoning my somber moments, deafening my silences, pulling insistently at the corners of my mouth.  I’m on a plane back to the Big Apple, to take another bite.  For another roll of the dice, bouncing on the green felt of island and ocean.  To play my cards in piano bars, write my fate idiomically on  Manhattan marquees, close my eyes, snake eyes, and cross the streets at stoplights. 

Another bite.  Roll again.  Okay, New York, here I come.

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