The first few steps are awkward and unconvincing. I shift through at least 10 songs on my pink ipod nano before I can be in sync with the perfect beat, at which point my leg muscles melt into each other, soothing away the past 8 hours of impact.
Stimulated by the sweet smell of sidewalk-roasting cashews, I am possessed.
Each moment is just a movement, and knowing that I have nowhere else to be only justifies the action more.
The memory of the cube, and tomorrow’s impeding desk chair-sediment are at the time forgotten, and to my body, all that is left is the beat of the songs echoing inside my head.
I pass men in three-piece suits and girls in three-inch heels. They see me, and they are jealous. Because not only am I walking, I am free.