New York is an artifact. A thing that humans move around on. New York, a romanticized idea to most, is simply layers. Layers upon layers of invented and reinvented, imagined and reimagined manifestations of human intention and necessity. It’s simply a very old and very storied clusterfuck.
New York is a cat. You mine what you need from it’s gaze, day after day. New York remains nonplussed by you. New York doesn’t even consider you.
There is something in it, though. Right? Something that makes us feel. Something that keeps the myth alive. Something behind why people pay what they do to live here. Maybe it is the sport in having to crawl your way onto this island day after day despite being blown back into the ocean every night.