Apparently Brooklyn needn't always push itself to be something else, something conscious and anxious, something pointed toward Manhattan.... Brooklyn… - Jonathan Lethem

Mrs. Neverbody’s Recipe for Making Crocodile Tears To a slice of hanky-panky Add some artificial cranky. Moisten well with canned boo-hoo. Flavor with a spoof or two. Drip this slowly — as it falls Roll it into little bawls. If you’re careful, while they’re cooling You can spread on only-fooling. (This recipe is not worthwhile Unless you are a crocodile.)

Grips slipped. Hers had from every surface. She's shaped nothing after all, only been crushed and reshaped. No wonder she felt for the brownstones, the cripples, now filling chaotically with no regard for her plan.

Or were they bound in slow-cooking love-hate, a folie à deux obscure to anyone outside their secret system?