there is nothing,
to figure out here,
She’s the other quintessential New Yorker. For now. The one whose held here by her own handcuffs of ambition and “doing what I love” attitude. Dotted lines on coffee shop leases aren’t barricades, they are welcomed self-imposed restraints. For now.
Her heist is happiness; the reward, life in and out of open doors. No thing is on layaway here, nothing. Except she, the complex human being, is. For now.