Instead of heading to Prospect Park he starts walking back to Manhattan, stunned by his impulse to return home when in effect there is no home to return to. From the top of the hill he spies the rooflines of warehouses around a former industrial site. By the time he reaches a defunct lumberyard, where pine, fir and mahogany had been off loaded from freighters navigating the East River to their final destinations, he considers his new home.  Drawn to bodies of water, to the cycle and flow of tides, to the wash and infinite rush of wakes, it occurs to him that he can seek refuge on the banks of the river where the stacks of an old sugar processing plant, now a pharmaceutical factory, are emitting huge plumes of smoke, the residue of anti-psychotics and anti-depressants perfuming the atmosphere as he takes his morning walk.    

                         
                                    Excerpt from SEPTEMBER 10TH





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