Nightshift

I am nocturnal now. It feels like I'm living inside-out. My nine-to-five is the evil twin of yours - (between you and me though, I think both twins are rather evil).

Times Square at four in the morning can not hide how ridiculous it is. Bling (yawn) bling. Imagine a Las Vegas show girl, decked out in her most fabulous get-up performing without music, without much of an audience - someone sweeping the aisle... someone sleeping in the back corner. But for christ's sake, she's giving it her all. She can't stop. Times square is a beaming sore without the crowds and the noise to drown it out. Without the double-decker buses filled with europeans, and chain restaurants spilling over with mid-westerners who came to New York to eat processed beef-food at a McDonalds that looks like a christmas tree on steroids. It is architectural neurosis. The spectacular billboards look simply ridiculous and ugly. They are 24-hour salesmen on acid. Huge faces of newscasters smile at the concrete. At me, alone. They are monsters. They could easily eat me.

Who leaves all these lights on? This inescapable orgasm of lights that just perpetually bursts and bursts with the same vigor and inensity as ever? Is Times Square an obsessed athlete? And idiot savant? A mad scientist? God almighty, is it you?

I am so tired. This pornographer doesn't care that leaves are changing only forty minutes north of it. That animals are preparing for hybernation. And while all of nature prepares for a long nap, Times Square keeps screaming "Fuck me, baby! Fuck me!"