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As content continues to flow and I look for buckets to put it in, my thoughts turn to New York and its bottomless well. It’s the city of infinite dangers for those striving for sanity, yet it holds the mental riches of the world.

New York City is the best, New York City is the brightest, New York City doesn’t care about the world. The latter of these statements lets you test your wings unbounded while the former keep you firmly on the ground. The sacred anonymity and the snobbish disposition conceive a child-consciousness that knows it when they see it, that takes it and then leaves it. If you can make it here, you better learn to swear.

The sense of ego knowing your actions could explode the world at any moment: with thought, with joy, with what you have to say. At the top of the Woolworth Building there’s a private, olympic-sized, jacuzzi-pool where all the important people play. They get dropped in on helicopters for there is no elevator, and use their parachute time to schedule Novembers. I don’t wish to be that efficient – I don’t wish to be that forward thinking – but these public pools all smell like spoiled hay.

I commute on the BQE and I beg for the G train’s approval. I spend this lost time believing it’s lost when really it’s hidden under thoughts. It’s a forty-hour, sixty-hour, eighty-hour town, where we want our days a little longer and our hours a little shorter. When the conflicted flickering you feel grows normal, take the Metro North and tear the ticket.

You’re a dangerous place, New York, for those that wish to be holy, when all I mean by holy is not so tired. Your wounds I can’t heal, and I won’t sit still for your sermons. We’ll walk this tightrope for as long as we can – you in high heels and me mindful.