As an inevitable result my thoughts are speeding, the life (or death) impulse reverberating.







From deep inside, I’m forcefully concentrated: like a bound-up victim eagerly awaiting the hands of ransom, exactly built for the type of work this city demands. In New York, the concrete jungle whose current stature rests above its devoured millions—yet the beast still craves for more. More vibrancy, more souls, more youths’ vitality to fuel its ceaseless spinning of mazes, webs, nets, or whatever other descriptor that suffices in portraying the entangled existence of its inhabitants, suspended superstars of a fate they once could have had a say in. Dreams and nightmares, false hopes and imaginary obstacles—all the contradictions of modernity one discovers through a deep dive of history—float just above plain sight. A placeless place.