Pages of the notebook are filled with
elaborately detailed landscape sketches.
Headache
hasn’t gone away for days. The doctor I saw said there were no traces of drugs
in me. Don’t know what’s causing this.
I
can’t stand the noise. Was New York always so loud? Everywhere I go is a
shrieking circus of sounds, all scraping like talons down my brain. The lights
are even worse. Had to turn off all of mine, but I can still see them at night
through the window. Can’t they shut them off for just one night? Then there’s
the smog….
More
people keep coming to the city. All the protestors, gathering for the
conference. All they do is add to the din. Except for the Wakį́yą people. It’s
easy to spot them amongst the protestors. They don’t have signs or chants. They’re
just standing off to the side, quietly watching the sky. As if they’re waiting
for something.
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