Oh to be alone in New York City. To be completely surrounded with people but entirely alone. Even when you’re with your family you choose to stand alone with your device.

You are constantly on your phone. Your phone runs out of batteries at least twice a day, so you carry your phone charger and steal electricity and cool air from a Starbucks once a day around 5 o’ clock.

The weight you carry around with you is unbearable; the dosage of heat and humidity is what you wanted, but you can’t quite remember why. Rest is only moderately restful.

Shit is falling on you all the fucking time.

Your breaks are spent ordering from the L L Bean catalog in the office lobby. You wonder why you even moved here in the first place. You should probably get back to your desk.

Your job is challenging.

The subway you were supposed to take comes every 10 minutes. That guy looks like he’s been waiting about 3.

You’re standing on a crowded subway. You probably look like shit and some asshole takes your picture.

You wish you could be in the park. You imagine empty fields of green. A pink towel twice as long as your body outstretched beneath an umbrella. A huge jug of iced tea. You forget that everyone in this city has gone mad.

Not the oasis you had expected, however. The park is full. There is no pink towel. There is a hairy, overweight man in a bathing suit that never did fit him. Also, he would like you to rub sunscreen on his back. You were just leaving.

You love it here because you don’t hate people. You like it when people are rude to you because you think its closer to reality. You want to buy everything. There’s no use in exchanging names because you can’t remember them anyway. But it’s ok, you won’t need it. You’re in New York City and you’re all alone.