I keep trying to think of things to write as I encounter New York again and again. Everything seems to come out like a Lonely Planet blurb or something. I can’t get real feelings and emotions about the place out. It captivates me beyond any other city. Everything about it is so real and raw, new and enticing. It is still learning what it is, where it is going. It is a world within a city, but not in an arrogant way like London or Paris. It is entirely natural, organic. It lives, strongly beating with a constant stream of rich, thick creativity and expression. New York truly doesn’t stop. People come and people go (mostly they come) and the lights keep burning and the music keeps playing.
I keep trying to define this place, but, like the city itself, the words liquify and morph and become something new almost instantly. I can’t catch them, and I can’t capture this experience. I can only live it and document it as I go, briefly isolating a single dimension of a multi-layered, enigmatic, untamed, and radical animal.