A few hours remained until sunset, though time is never enough in the city. Even the quality of sunlight was alien, defused in the reflection of monoliths that would outshine primitive idols.

I wanted to love the city. There is an electricity to the dullest day here that overpowers its clinging aroma. Friends have moved cityward, rarely seen again, each acting as though they relocated to Shangri-La, despite muggings and struggling.

Ground Zero in the early 2000s was the best place in the nation to sob. Anywhere else, any time else, and people assumed you were mentally unfit. Here, among the dust that may have as likely been a photocopier as a middle manager, we could be pure. In the city, but not of the city.

Cities pour forth a virus. Humans are infected and told to build cages that no one should want to live in. Or cities are a pyramid scheme: everyone is supposed to be there, I am an everybody, so I will move there and bring two others, who will bring two more.

It is no surprise this is the reputed to be the greatest city in the world. It is a blob of brick and neon connected by the arterial subway, equal parts fear and wonder. It breathes, more robotic than organic, but alive.

The city has a way of tricking people into honesty, or honest sounding lies. It is the noise, the crowds, squeezing things from deep inside you that you assumed would be hidden beneath the honk of a cab. You breathe in the vapor rising from manholes and the unceasing petrichor and cough out something as foolish as “I love you” to someone you don’t yet.