"There are moments we return to, now and always. Family is like water- it has a memory of what it once filled, always trying to get back to the original stream. I was on the bottom bunk again, listening to his slumber verses. The flap of our childhood letterbox opened. Opening the door to the spray of the sea."
"It struck me that distant cities are designed precisely so you can know where you came from. We bring home with us when we leave. Sometimes it becomes more acute for the fact of having left."
"Amazing, indeed, yes. And an attempt at beauty. The intersection of a man with the city, the abruptly reformed, the newly appropriated space, the city as art."
"This is not my life. These are not my cobwebs. This is not the darkness I was designed for."
"The repeated lies become history, but they don't necessarily become the truth."
"A row of smokers stood out in front of the Metropolitan hospital on 98 and 1st avenue. Each looked like his last cigarette, ashen and ready to fall. Through swinging doors, the receiving room was filled to capacity. Another cloud of smoke inside. Patches of blood on the floor. Junkies strung out along the benches. It was the type of hospital that looked like it needed a hospital."
"Coming to the city was like entering a tunnel, he said, and finding to your surprise that the light at the end didn't matter; sometimes in fact the tunnel made the light tolerable."
Image via New Shelton wet/dry
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