Blading the Brooklyn Bridge |
New York, NY
In the stinking dead of night, the masses emerge from rotted, broken steampipes. An entire race, they crawl and scrape and drag their tattered houses. On and on they march like wounded black ants returning from battle, dragging limbs and pieces of bark and metal to furnish a place of rest among the ruins of their subterranean homes.
Museum of Fine Art |
What is it about this city that stirs the soul? Here is a world where everything and nothing is possible. Each visit leaves us with a feeling of being alive. To walk down wide avenues, wander in the park, stroll in the shade of tall buildings, marvel at art and architecture, eat, drink and pay a lot of money to sleep in rundown rooms in Chelsea. Pitiful rooms. And it is worth it.
It's the overloading of the senses. The unending, cyclical timelessness where going out late leads to getting in late leads to getting up late leads to working late leads to going out late. It is a night in spain, with heat oozing out of the pavement.