How can this moment feel as monumental as it does regular, dull, and Monday evening? Is it even Monday? The ceiling fan above slowly turns, suddenly bothering me. The roof is splitting by gushed Brooklyn winds. What about the ticking clock in the room? It only seems to tick when I notice it’s there.
I’m in Bed-Stuy, and the 2020 presidential election is tomorrow. I’m alone, eating…
