![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
It's not New York, is all I think when I get a good look at this place.
It could have been more beautiful, more witty, but that's all I get: it's not New York. Not mine. The skyline's gone, but that's not the important part, the relocation. In more than one way, I'm somewhere else entirely, and more than what it's not, I need to find out what it is.
It's American, that's for sure, and there's a bleakness to the pavement, the lights of a tired ferris wheel that used to be more. A bit New Jersey? But there isn't a chance in hell I'd fall asleep on a train all the way to Jersey, no matter how tired and stupidly nostalgic.
Maybe I should feel frightened. I don't know.
I start walking, then, shove my hands in my jacket pockets, nothing else to do. The people are wrong, too. There's too much colour, too few cops, not enough adverts. It's like something just got released from the grip of a fist. My eyes linger on clothes that look like they're from some other world, mixed in with suits and ties I could see every day. Then I see some glitter-dusted blonde kid laughing, walking hand tucked into the back pocket of an older man and the world tips entirely.
It prickles under my skin, catches in my throat and I turn, go for the first shop door I can turn around into.
It could have been more beautiful, more witty, but that's all I get: it's not New York. Not mine. The skyline's gone, but that's not the important part, the relocation. In more than one way, I'm somewhere else entirely, and more than what it's not, I need to find out what it is.
It's American, that's for sure, and there's a bleakness to the pavement, the lights of a tired ferris wheel that used to be more. A bit New Jersey? But there isn't a chance in hell I'd fall asleep on a train all the way to Jersey, no matter how tired and stupidly nostalgic.
Maybe I should feel frightened. I don't know.
I start walking, then, shove my hands in my jacket pockets, nothing else to do. The people are wrong, too. There's too much colour, too few cops, not enough adverts. It's like something just got released from the grip of a fist. My eyes linger on clothes that look like they're from some other world, mixed in with suits and ties I could see every day. Then I see some glitter-dusted blonde kid laughing, walking hand tucked into the back pocket of an older man and the world tips entirely.
It prickles under my skin, catches in my throat and I turn, go for the first shop door I can turn around into.
