Thorns Mark the Road That Brought You Here

This city is a giant machine, roaring as it runs day after day. I live in an old apartment building, with a dense cluster of office towers outside my window. They are like rows of neatly aligned gears, interlocking and driving some invisible order. My room is tiny, but it has a south-facing window, and a pothos sits on the sill. I picked it up three years ago beneath my office building, where it had been abandoned beside a trash can, its leaves yellow and its roots exposed. Now it has grown lush, its vines hanging down almost to the floor. Every day before I leave, I water it. It's one of the few rituals in my life.