NYC

I went to New York, where the people are deliciously vulgar--you motherfuckin' bitch, fuck that, cocksucker can eat shit--and the streets are piled with natives running their routes like trained hamsters,or else tourists biting the apple, and everyone is walking on top of each other, avoiding the dirty bums who look you straight in the eye and know you, and the buildings are tall, but it's really the multimedia screens in Times Square that engulf you with their impossible neonety and moving advertisements screeching at you to buy clothes and watch television, a nightmarish prophecy that only Aldous Huxley could have dreamed up, and there's dirt, dirt, dirt, and New York City doesn't have any alleys, so the trash bags are on the streets and a certain smell takes over, a rich, ripe, real smell, it's sentient, it smells like humans, the waste that we make, the waste that we are, and there are still more people pushing you, God, there must be a million, jillion people on this street, everyone in the whole world is on 43rd street with you and they're all a thrumming, throbbing mass trying to cross the street onto their important lives.

When the sun goes down in New York City, life is different. The dark lets the dirt and smell live peacefully unnoticed, and the tourists with children retire to their overpriced hotel rooms. The energy levels from a boisterous nightmare to a quiet excitement, a slow and steady rhythm. Because it's cool, it's sweet, so sweet to be in a city at night and to feel the dark lift your feet. People laugh more at night, because they're done with work, and it's time to feel good, to feel like you're actually thrumming with this strange pulse instead of fighting against it.

I won't ever live in New York City. But I may go back.