One side of the block is Benjamin's Bagel Shop and the other side's the spray-painted playground of a Catholic School, try very hard to pictures this; I want you to walk through where I live at. Where a drive by shooting happened last night and a women died. But don't worry, this morning the kids were walking the same sidewalks to school. Anything you need, you can get within this slab of Manhattan blocks. You need some flour or an eight-ball? You can get that. Where the junkies share an address with the sober-fucks, who are trying to get their shit together just so their kids can grow up. There's some crack-slangin going on right next to the orange school crossing guard, an overlap that really ain't all that new. At night there's just too much going on, Mary's trying to get men up to an apartment across the street that vaguely resembles a project, and another guy with dreadlocks is trying to get his change together so his kids can have something to eat. The apartment just adjacent is really very different, full-floor luxury condos where the rich live alone with their statues and bad art. They're like fish in an aquarium with their big windows open, searching for some attention. Jack tightens a belt around his arm every night after work as he pours a glass of rum, and the women above him is making love to her hand in a room that she paid someone else to decorate. I see all this from the fire-escape, where I sit and write. I see the NYPD on an average of six times a night. And when it's finally time to go to bed I try to use a bedsheet as a curtain, because there world's sometimes just too much and I can't fall asleep to the sound of people hurtin.