It is now 12:51 am on a Wednesday night and my intemperate love for the web has led me down another path in which I will once again try my best to make an indelible observation that may or may not offer to shed a new light on what seems like an illimitable subject.
It is now 12:56 am and I have decided that I have way too much work tomorrow to sit here and pontificate on the cultural nuances of the internet.
Plus its really hard to think with that annoying white hum of the air conditioning, its not just my apartment, I feel like I can hear every air conditioner in Manhattan, collectively churning out that cool dehumidified thermal comfort.
NYC seems to get into character in the summer time.
The sweltering heat is so indicative of the NYC persona this time of year.
NYC in the summer is a tall, slender man in a gray suit. Worn out at the limb bends, pilled and sweat stained, smoke stenched jacket hanging over the back of his broken leather chair.
His lady bent sideways hips and hoops, draped over him, hot as asphalt.
His cup filled with hops, scotch and ash.
The winning pitch, the big idea, just above his head like a brumous cloud settling upon that bridge to Brooklyn.
His eyes carry a crepuscular charisma, his hair less kept.
Deep in thought he sells his soul to the devil, for conjecture.
But then again conjecture sells...
OK its 1:17am and I think I have satisfied my desire to write.
Not sure I said anything, or that I really needed to say anything, just felt like acknowledging the heat.
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