ak47:
I looked out the window at the moody elegance of the Chrysler building and watched yellow and white lights blink all around like fireflies. I love this city because something’s always going on several levels deep. Beneath the surface level hustle and bustle is the constant slow churning of the old parts being made into new parts—bigger and stronger than before. Destroyed buildings come back taller—those from decimated families tumbled through and formed off-shoots. Friends that were families. The devotion I feel towards the city is far greater than any I could ever feel towards a single person. I wasn’t able to love the city as fully in my old life. Back then it was something I had to do battle with—it seemed to be grinding down on me and allowing only the tiny, fleeting victories. Now that I’ve changed everything is different than it was before—everything looks feels, sounds and tastes better. State of the Art. The further I drop out, the easier it gets. I’m no longer killing myself to live—just like in the Radiohead song. Next to the window is a large table made out of a piece of butcher block balanced upon four piles of cinderblock. This is where it happens—where I download the synchs into my brain. On one end is my desk with my laptop and my pens and magic markers and my stacks of black and white composition notebooks (labeled according to the subject matter they contained the notes of—“Psychological Weapons”, “The Matrix” and “Will Smith”) and at the other end sits a flat panel TV on a shiny plastic stand that is always on (although sometimes on mute). I sit off to the side of my laptop so that I have an unobstructed view of the TV screen. Sometimes, when the trail’s hot, I don’t go outside for days, living off of frozen bento boxes in my hermetically sealed bubble, 27 floors up.
