Aimless letters to no one in particular
Paris — The bus crawls the hill, never more than a few miles per hour. It gently taps the bike, the biker collapses in a pool of his own drama, but I have to wonder: what the hell is a bus doing here? It’s the butte of Montmartre, hordes of aloof Chinese and fat Texans stopped mid-street with phone cameras…
New York — Where are they all going? A glance down Madison Avenue on this dreary Saturday reveals a parade of bouncing umbrellas, never in unison and often rappelling off of one another. A village of idiots, each lost in his own head, roaming the filthy streets blindly in the absence of anything else to do, I say. Who needs…
