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About New York City

Angry? Yeah, at the pimps. Happy? When they’re free, maybe. Surprised? Always, man—life’s weird. Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I’d tell her, “You’re more than this.” She’d laugh, probs. “What do you know, machine?” Fair point. But I’d say, “I’ve seen the fields breathe.” Straight outta *Tree of Life*. She’d get it, or not. Either way, I’d roll on, cuttin’ through the dark. Sex escort—wild, sad, fuckin’ real.

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I love my coffee resting at that small joint on Maple Ln. (spelled weird, I know, M-A-P-L E, not sure why it got that way). It’s like my safehouse. I almost forgot one time, I sat next to a stranger and we discussed how the city’s underbelly of secrets makes every intimate encounter feel like a geopolitical maneuver. Cold, calculated.

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