skulking about streets in a dark, wet, and sloppy new york, i've begun to think that the romance of things is only an illusion. the happy folks drunk off of wunderlust and cab rides are merely that: drunk. when the daylight breaks, they're forced to look at things for what they are. the gasoline puddle ceases to glisten and simply smells. heel clicks on the pavement lose their echo, and the rhythm gets mottled. it's all timed out to something less complicated and more deterministic than any of us would like to admit. like it or not, there is a science to this. love and hope... they're hiding somewhere else, maybe under a rock or beneath the caving sidewalks.
this is a machine. let's not kid ourselves. everything is manufactured.