“It’s June second, he told himself. Try to remember that. This is New York, and tomorrow will be June third. If all goes well, the following day will be the fourth. But nothing is certain.”
"Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then say Nothing.
It’s nothing. Just sad dreams.
Or something like that … Swing low in your weep ship, with your tear scans and your sob probes, and you would mark them.
Women - and they can be wives, lovers, gaunt muses, fat nurses, obsessions, devourers, exes, nemeses -
Will wake and turn to these men and ask, with female need-to-know, ‘What is it?’
And the men say, ‘Nothing. No it isn’t anything really.
Just sad dreams.’
… And when he sighed you could hear the distant seagulls falling through his lungs.
Nothing. It isn’t anything. Just sad dreams.”
(Photography by Philip Banks)