My walk took me to the Williamsburg Bridge, seven blocks south to Delancey and one block over to the entrance. The air was not cold but there was cold behind the wind. I walked into the wind, onto the bridge, and began to speak to them, each in turn, every one I had transformed. I told them, each in turn, how, over months and years, their substance had been replaced, organ by organ, by a dark mass of my own device, as of pumice and ashes, which could be and was, ultimately, crushed and carried off by the wind into which I was now speaking, in the hope my voice would be carried to them, and that they would forgive me. I reached the Williamsburg side, marked my place and returned, silent, a cold wind at my back.
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