Hey guys, I really have nothing to say. I've had a hard couple of weeks. My stepbrother just got out of the hospital (not as bad as it sounds, he had a minor lacrosse injury) and I've been in bed with a cold which may or may not be developing into bronchitis and/or pneumonia (once again, totally not as bad as it sounds). Basically, I'm pretty beat.
I just want to quote you guys something pretty.
"When I think of New York I have a very different feeling. New York makes even a rich man feel his unimportance. New York is cold, glittering, malign. The buildings dominate. There is a sort of atomic frenzy to the activity going on; the more furious the pace, the more diminished the spirit. A constant ferment, but it might just as well be going on in a test tube. Nobody knows what it's all about. Nobody directs the energy. Stupendous. Bizarre. Baffling. A tremendous reactive urge, but absolutely uncoordinated.
When I thinking of this city where I was born and raised, this Manhattan that Whitman sang of, a blind, white rage licks my guts. New York! The white prisons, the sidewalks swarming with maggots, the breadlines, the opium joins that are built like palaces, the kikes that are there, the lepers, the thugs, and above all, the ennui, the monotony of faces, streets, legs, houses, skyscrapers, meals, posters, jobs, crimes, loves.... A whole city erected over a hollow pit of nothingness. Meaningless. Absolutely meaningless. And forty-second Street! The top fo the world, they call it. Where the bottom then? You can walk along with your hands out and they'll put cinders in your cap. Rich or poor, they walk along with head thrown back and they almost break their necks looking up at their beautiful white prisons. They walk along like blind geese and the searchlights spray their empty faces with flecks of ecstasy." (Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer)
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