I watched the sunrise just now, in the catnip cold of metropolis. It grates to admit it was beautiful, a last glimpse before I return to the north. This city is one of tragedy, a promise of remission, reminiscing. To me it seems absurd to say this place is worth living in—but, now, it seems absurd to also call it dead.

It’s nearing 7 AM as I speak—because I stayed up all night, outside in naught but a thin sweater and a pair of shorts—because I’m crazy—and because this place robs me of rest. I’ve no appetite for it here. I’ve shed my mattress for a sheet—just sheet on frame on bone. I figure there’s no use trying to mask discomfort. The whole city reeks of it, seethes it during the night as I traverse rat-infested tunnels in lieu of sleep—

Yet, still, at this moment, I find myself captivated by this place—this somber place with no inch organic, no foot unpaved, synthetic. It seems the cold is life as I watch solemn strangers shiver on by, comforted by the huff of their breaths coalescing in the air. It seems the dawn has that kind of effect. And, though I long for the morning fog—I desperately long for the morning fog of suburbia—perhaps I could linger here a while longer.

And, oh, if I could! I begin to think that I find no place home until I leave it—a curse of dysphoria! Damn it all, damn it all, damn it all—