something about the city

there was something like random destiny in the city last sunday. i was on my hung-over way home to my dad's house around noon. i had decided (somewhat randomly and uncharacteristically) to be logical and walk a block to get a cab uptown instead of making it do crazy village cab-things. waiting on 6th, two people steal my cab. i take this and start walking. four steps later, a cab whips past me, and the passenger sticks his head out the window and yells my name. it's my dad.

---

there was something menacing about the city on tuesday. the heat clung to my clothes as i trudged home after school. the sunlight from a cloudless sky reflected off the buildings in a blinding spotlight on me. i didn't see the porky guy in the sox cap or the uniformed school-girl, who—surprisingly enough—made the same irritated scoff when i walked into them. i don't know if it was the headache that the light had given me, but the cars, the people, the streets seemed louder than usual. hostile. cruel. curling up with a blanket on the couch would be its only remedy.

---

there was something intoxicating about the city last night. the definition between the buildings and the sky blurred. one melted into the other until it seemed either that the buildings shot upwards forever or the sky was descending everywhere. i had managed to find the streets with all that shiny metal embedded in it, when an inch of sidewalk that had looked pupil black, beams like the sun was trapped behind it as you walk by, but is gone when you look back for it steps later. i followed the tiny strips of silver home, as other solitary figures did the same.