The fog sets in and I feel comfort.
I want to walk into its belly and get lost in its beast.
It pours in and overwhelms in nearly opaque waves.
I want to walk forever into the world of dying manmade. I want to witness the mother and her crying child. I want to be surprised by the wisdom of the street shouter. I want to stumble upon the most beautiful, ugly alley sunset ever not seen.
I want to listen to the city as she speaks to me through thousands of words etched, dropped, drawn and whispered on the streets, sidewalks, lamp posts, garbage bins, naked walls and all the places in between.
I want to know her greatest achievements and her deepest regrets. I want to walk down the streets most visited in search of a diverging path yet discovered.
I want to sit idle and watch how her limbs pump and jive to an invisible rhythm, born of the footfalls on the street, the musician’s soulful song, the horns of the irritated, the laughter of the mirthful visitor and the murmurs of young lovers.