to Move

No, it wasn't Limelight, I think it was the Anvil, anyway you couldn't go there late at night and the transvestite hookers would take their customers to the loading docks of what is now the Chelsea Market, I saw it all from my window anyway then AIDS came and wiped it all away I lost 40 friends in just a few years it was a massacre. 

The old loft on the corner of Bedford is giddy with recollection, wide windows staring at a midtown in transition, how everyone steps into this river in their own time, it is never the same. I walked home along Washington Square Park and breathed deep a city I know only in my time, how my greatest regret is not having been here when. This town evolves again and again even under our watchful eyes, it will never live up to the fairytale we've made it and yet we never let the dream go. I get the drugs prescribed by my doctor now, it's just as well. Everybody saw David Bowie at some point, he is not gone.

It turns out to be a miracle simply that we are alive. We survive on our own naïve conviction; friends and family and complete strangers die, through no fault of their own, through coincidental wrong turns at a stoplight, people die all the time and yet here we are, alive, and with time left to realize our potential. Narcissistic ignorance carries us through to another day: of course it will work out, of course we will find something better; how else could we possibly go on? Even our heroes died, and yet here we are, refilling our glasses and toasting to the creative madness within.

You are alive.
That, alone, means you owe it to the world to wow us
with what you have yet
to give.