This is what Brooklyn inherited when I arrived, and this is why it’s home. I feel the borough too, in my body, mostly on the N Train westbound as the cabin rocks and I, standing up and staring once again at the Brooklyn Bridge. We feel like we do what we wish, artists of New York, because the city is allegedly whimsical, according to writers. I don’t feel that, but that would mean camaraderie is present and I don’t really feel that, either. I am tired of my fat body in heat during summer, so changes abound.

But back then, I arrived here with Frank Ocean in tow, “Channel Orange” on repeat for a month. It was a soundtrack to a shaky summer of transition and now, four years later, he is back, and I am on firm ground, but bored, yet hopeful all of a sudden. I realize my sleep pattern has changed, in part, because the seasons are changing. I know this because I marked the occasion two nights ago when, stunned, I stared at my Apple Watch telling me sundown was 7:58 pm. Before Eight. It’s an important holiday entirely rural like me but not because I’ve changed too, like a season, or just at the edges, in the greys, the Marches and the Octobers.