Even the nice places of New York have a very dirty edge to them, a danger.
It is as if the entire city is switchblade antique, rusted solid in attractive enviable untouchable positions.
Or perhaps it is only something of near relative value, seen at the whirlpool bottom bowl, glimmering in those transient and recurring waters.
Alive in a way that only a death-at-sea can be, or a non-stop funeral for the sky?
A watch, or a ring, or a lighter, or a aura ; never meant to be lost.
Things are pronounced and distorted here ; their value, their worth, forever changed by the lightnings and shadows ; the unending feeling that the much-anticipated opening is closing, has closed.
By the sightings alone.
All things here seem other.
So other.
