The laundromat’s machines cycled restlessly like a clock’s second hand, although the first hand is more fitting because my time moved like hot traffic. That’s the problem with keeping your clothes white in a darkening city – you have to be mindful of what’s creeping into your streets. You can force the colors from your wardrobe easy enough, but not black in your heart. And the machines you kept set to delicates and lights tumble away from you, without you, with the rest of the world like permanent press.