I was jogging around Central Park's Reservoir after two a.m. My Cordova tale began for the second time on a rainy October night, when I was just another man running in circles, going nowhere as fast as I could. In the blink of an eye, he's right beside you by the fruit punch, staring back at you when you turn and casually ask the time. He's down under the railway bridge in the river with all the missing evidence, and the answers that will never see the light of day.Īnd yet I can't help but believe when you need him the most, Cordova has a way of heading straight toward you, like a mysterious guest you notice across the room at a crowded party. He's underground, looming unseen in the corners of the dark. He's a crevice, a black hole, an unspecified danger, a relentless outbreak of the unknown in our overexposed world. Whatever your opinion of Cordova, however obsessed with his work or indifferent-he's there to react against.
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