The city that never sleeps.
In New York, you're somehow never alone and always alone. There are people everywhere, yet they're nearly all strangers.
Languages that you didn't even know existed finish the same sentence.
In New York, there's art and ash and blood and beauty all rolled into one on the same dirty pavement.
Beggars and socialites, artists and frauds, saints and sinners, idolize her, pretend her gray cold streets are golden.
And maybe they are.
Maybe there's something golden under the dirt and the shit and the trash.
New York is freedom in slavery.
You're a slave to fashion to your rent, to your neighbors, to your politics, to the subway, yet you're freer than you've ever been.