"Florida, as you know, is a lovely place, where Cubans go to live and Jews go to die."

- Jon Stewart

It is a lonely, starry night in New York City once again. I am ambling along on a boulevard, although they're never called that, when I realized what's been wrong with me for the past hour. It's stir crazy. I've never had this before. It's a mildly amusing feeling to look back on, but intensely irritating when you're gripped by its wrath. I feel like there's something to do, but I don't know what it is, like I must get out and accomplish something, but it's 1:30 on a Sunday (now Monday), and the stores are closed, the lights are out, and I feel like I'm the only one left alive in this god-forsaken hell hole we call the "evening."

But that's not fair. This is beautiful time again. I love the evening. I just find myself gripped by the dichotomy of my love and hate of it, of the fact that I do everything in the evening while the world does nothing. It's my most obvious reminder of my being out-of-step with the world, ever-so-slightly out-of-step, and my foot keep hitting the back of her shoe, but I can't seem to get myself aligned. Would I even want to? It's much more entertaining to see the dirty look on her face every time I make contact. I fear she may slap me, but I'd probably just get up, with a red mark and an apologetic grin, and remember to walk slightly to her left next time.

But I'm not walking anymore. I'm indoors, with a bright computer screen blinding my eyes (and probably giving me carpul tunnel). I want to walk. I want to be stepping on the heels of the world, and making her move to get aligned with me.

Watch it explode
While it's not impossible for flowers to bloom and grow
Next to graves
And babies are born
In the same buildings where people go
To pass away

- Dredg - Triangle

The car’s on fire, and there’s no driver at the wheel. And the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides. And a dark wind blows. The government is corrupt, and we’re all so many drunks with the radios on and the curtains drawn. We’re all trapped in the belly of this horrible machine, and the machine is bleeding to death. The sun has fallen down, and the billboards are all leering, and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles. It went like this: the buildings toppled in on themselves, mothers clutching babies picked through the rubble, and pulled out their hair. The skyline was beautiful on fire, all twisted metal stretching upwards, everything washed in a thin orange haze. I said, “Kiss me, you’re beautiful! These are truly the last days!” You grabbed my hand, and we fell into it, like daydream, or a fever.

We woke up one morning, and fell a little further down. For sure, it’s the valley of death. I open up my wallet, and it is full of blood.

GYBE