I’m looking at that map tattoo on the back of my eyelids. I faintly note external movement, a repetitive sound not unlike the wings of a bird in flight, but this is not important.

The MTA, as it happens, has not one but two stops it calls Gun Hill Road. Both are a snap to get to but I’m talking about the station serviced by probably (some might argue this point) the most reliable train line in the city, the 5 express; because it lets you out right there, the place I go now.

I imagine myself exiting the train, taking the stairs two at a time. I’m out on the street, but pressed somehow, agitated: Go, go, go.

If I walked just a bit south, I would in time get to the Botanical Garden. In the past I’ve found solace in the garden. But I can’t go there now. I’ve got somewhere else to be, something specific to verify.

I head west, toward Woodlawn Cemetery.