what we are

You think you need to stop. At night, you tell yourself "I'm gonna take a day and figure this out. Make a decision." But this is New York. Things don't work that way here. There's always a bus to catch, stairs to rush down to catch a train. There's always new projects popping up that demand a squeeze in your schedule. There's always people you want to see but you can't. There's always people you don't wan't to see but you have to. There's always another rent right at the corner. The rent money is always on our mind here.

The City grabs us, shoves us around. We're pushed, tricked, hustled, squeezed, cheated.

We don't have to. Could be somebody else. Plenty of 'em waiting.

We stumble and try to stay up. We're broke but we keep going. We're talked to ways we don't like and we let it know - when we can. We don't die. Not in the City. We just disappear. There are no cemeteries for our tired bodies to rest. Our feet hurt. There's the rent coming up pretty soon, but today we'll take a cab anyway because our feet hurt and because something will happen tomorrow. Something always does, here. The same way there'll always be someone to trip you up, to sell you out. Always someone to take your seat. Always someone to cut the line in front of you. Always someone to ask you for a dollar. For 25 cents.

We're always on the lookout. We're always on the run from somewhere. We were not born here. Nobody was. Ever. Welcome in Transcient City. Nulle-part-lieu.

Always somebody wants something from you, wants to take something from you. Once in a while, someone holds a subway door for you. Someone finds your eyes because something unusual is going on and in this brief moment when our eyes look at each other, we exchange all there is to communicate. You have a new friend. But the train stops and its your stop too so you get off and this friend, you'll never see him/her again.

We exchange posts on Craigslist. "You were reading a magazine." "You had a bike." "You said, 'Nice scarf.'"

"I didn't know what to say." "I didn't know how to break the ice."

"Our eyes met."

"It was in the L train."

"G line"

"Lexington avenue train."

We trip. Somebody may have tripped us up. Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we fall, but sometimes we don't.

In Summer you're boiling in the streets. In Winter, you're freezing your ass off. But we raise buildings and skyscrapers where there was bare rock.

Sometimes we get up after we fell. Sometimes we don't.

We grow old but we don't die. We disappear. We take a special train. That's where all the MTA's money going. Nobody cares if you jump the turnstile or not. In our last train ride we disappear. Deep into the City.

Stand clear of the closing doors.