to Watch Over (Me)

A relationship, I think, is like a shark. You know? It has to constantly move forward or it dies. And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark. 

Woody Allen irks me, his neuroticism and severe case of perverted old man, they get under my skin and hinder my enjoying his supposed genius. But the night grows long, my bruised limbs swim in hung over anxieties, the fog of life still lies thick, and I long for a little ease. I jones for a hit of New York.

Hours later, another set of closing credits, Stockholm is as far away as ever. I can smell the streetcarts on a steamy July day, my nerves sing with that restless uncertainty, that relentless ambition that streams through the city's veins. I can feel the exact way the subway trains swing in the downhill to the stop at West 4th Street. It is a lovely drug, pleasant, with the power to remove me just far enough from reality that I am content.

Its only problematic side effect is that I want more, and more, and never to go a moment without.

Chapter One:
He adored New York City.


I could not have said it better myself.