On Love

Did you ever sit on rock in the midst of a thunder- and lightning-storm, holding hands with someone you could only see every few minutes for a fraction of a second while the rest of the time you sat in pitch-darkness under all that noise and falling water, soaked and shivering not with cold but thrill as it was hot, high summer? And then wonder later why the only romantic experiences that made you feel anything at all were those that made very loud noises and were illuminated in tiny increments of time and often felt like they might wash you away? Which came first, the desire to see the thunderstorm or the thunderstorm you saw?

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I was crossing through Gowanus on Union Street the other day when I saw the most beautiful light coming through the scrim of a pair of enormous, undulating curtains. I was just west of that parody of urban water features, the Gowanus canal, in the spate of warehouses and row houses between the pollution and the South Brooklyn Casket Company.

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