headfirst slide into mahattan on a bad bet,

by Rachel Lynch in


I live in this house. And I built it wrong. And I watched it crumble. Now I'm moving on. Nothing in my pocket but an empty wallet and some honey. I walk these streets with the faith that these boots will get me home in one piece. I inhale, take the stale city air. The homeless on my street have me thinking about the reason I'm here. And I swear somebody on my block died last night, a young women take by the hand of a domestic fight. I wonder what possess a man to kill his wife; but I continue along, even though I know that shit ain't right.

What keeps us all so quiet at night? Locked up in our apartments, cold sheets and empty streets. We could all make it happy if we wanted to, but the human conditions got us trapped alone inside like glue. There's something tasty about suffering, something appealing about being cold. It's not that we want it, but it's that we need it. God shouldn't of left man to fend for his own.