I stand at the corner of Park Avenue and 72nd, and listen.
I read once that thought is just a by-product of arranging information, and as I look at all the people swapping stories and making deals I have to wonder, just what the hell else are we doing here?
“…I’m an accountant, not a Mafioso…”
“…I had to do it…”
What is this? Definition. Justification. I am here and I have a right to exist.
Maybe that’s the secret of this place.
We are flickers and sparks. Nerves and impulses. Arrangers of information. And the city is waking up.
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