It is 3pm. Daylight, still. You have poured the contents of your belly upon your shoes, into the bus lane with both sound and fury. Now: follow these instructions. Abandon your shoes. They belong to 6th Avenue now. Carefully slip out your feet so as to leave the scene undisturbed. This is very important: do not move your shoes. Back away slowly in your socked feet. Now turn and RUN. Run up 6th Avenue like you have never run before. As you run, feel lighter on your feet. Feel gazelle-like. Throw in a stag leap. Throw in multiple stag leaps. Flee across 59th street and into Central Park. Fill your nostrils with the fragrant aroma of horse excreta. This is your home now. Leave all your worldly possessions behind. Shed the monogram Goach bag you bought in Chinatown yesterday. Shed your performance fleece vest. Shed the Pandora charm bracelet your husband gave you on your 9th anniversary. It was an awful gift; be free of it. Take a new name. Your name is now Carol. Flee westward across Sheep Meadow with your heart full and arms outstretched. Get in a few high-fives if you can. Flee north and across The Lake, across Bow Bridge. Crouch on the edge of Turtle Pond and drink. Devour palmful after palmful of algae and paint your whole body thick with green. Night is coming. Find a tree, a hollow, a dark damp space beneath an outcropping of bedrock. You live beneath rocks now, Carol. You *are* the rocks. You are the grass. You are the leaves. You are the chittering of squirrels. You are the wind. You are the wind now, Carol, and you are never, EVER invited to boozy brunch again.