In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with the George Washington Bridge.

An amber light descended on the rooftops of Washington Heights.

Dark clouds loomed ominously overhead.

Inside we read the news reports and — like everyone else we know — wondered what it means.

Are we fucked?

Or are we not fucked?

Odd that nobody seems to know.

But to frame it in these terms is comforting.

It almost makes it seem as if today is no different than any other day.

As if we were the bridge, and any troubles were in fact just passing clouds in the sky.