It was an awkward night.

The night itself. If I looked up at it, which I would never do, I’d see the charcoal dim shifting back and forth nervously. If there were stars, which there never would be (that’s why we don’t look up at the night in NYC) , they would have the look of dirt and dust that gets beamed when there is nothing on a projector.

I left my house with a terrible sense of foreboding; which did two things for me. One, I finally understood the phrase “terrible sense of foreboding.” And two, my own subjectivity was overwhelming the scene and I didn’t seem to mind.

When people like to read prose, things like novels, I mean really enjoy reading them, it’s exactly because of that, a whole word is enveloped in a distinct subjectivity. It’s how we go about our lives daily isn’t it? We see the world, thru prose colored glasses.

But was the night really awkward? Wasn’t there someone sorta like me, or at least in the sense of a demographic similar, leaving their place somewhere near me, and thinkin’ “wow, this is ‘effin’ cool, what a great night.”

When people don’t like prose, or it doesn’t come to them as pleasantly easily, it’s because of this, when the subjectivity is broken by reminders of a reality, bigger than our own view.

Maybe tho, the night was actually awkward. Like the word “awkward,” which in its spelling and the way it looks is really awkward. Maybe the weather had changed strangely too soon, got cold, then went back to soggy muggy. Maybe there was an overriding hum, inaudible, and not actual, but a cumulative effect of various environmental cross-hatchings, that was driving all of us batty.

I asked a few people, admittedly not a representative sample, cuz they were in the same place as me. It was a lil’ bit like asking people in a temple or catholic church what their religion is, and feeling proud that you guessed correctly. But, I did ask them. What about this? What about this night, this awkward night?

“Yeah man weird. Weird night. Awkward.”