The wind passed me along the highways as the beastie boys bellowed through the speakers, the hapless city crowed. Half-faced and half-gasped, the time had dropped me dead from the sky. Flashlight warnings from poison trucks spewing yellow mist into the dying night. So I ran… Battery Park to start, Avenue O, 25th Street, Times Square baby.
Graveyard shift drivers blustering by on either side, camera wrapped firm like a pistol in my palm. I jab my heel back to snatch a shot from thin air, the each decisive moment more deceiving than the last.
The poison took me quick, the town had swallowed me. And sitting here; rotting in its belly, for the first time surrounded by cripples and addicts, I was home.