yankee foxtrot hotel

by Rachel Lynch in

what new york used to be. Tribeca, gothic eyes perched upon each passing character, everyone with a story, everyone once living somewhere before. Seas of souls holding cigarettes to lips with manically thin arms. City blocks, naked in the window, taking off your clothes, using half a roll of film. Expressions and cherries. Parts undone, age unknown.

Howling back under the blood moon, the city wants to keep us under the influence. We breath a new breed, produce our art at all costs because nothing is more important; nothing is more life giving.

the city itself strikes me as a piece of highest insanity. some mornings, you can be among thousands of people and feel as if you are upon the edge of madness. As I sit here looking out I remember what Miller said,

"I live for those who are said to be crazy and have no way of defending themselves because they are outnumbered by those who are not crazy"