New York City

There is a pulse that beats. A noisy, grimy, endless scratching on the surface. Steel, bricks, concrete, worn and tarnished. Even the most polished dapper has a certain grit about him. An intersection of rats and humans and trash and objects waiting to be consumed. A life that keeps moving regardless. Is it comforting to know that everyone is just trying to stay afloat? Each time I come back, I think I might know the city a little better. I don't and there's the appeal of New York. It sucks you in and spits you right back out.

the weight of silence or the whirring chatter. faces blending into a stainless steel surrounding, mouths gnawing words apart. it's easy to drift away. making a conscious effort to be present, to be there, alert and responsive, is challenging. being human and attempting to bridge the gap between individuals is challenging.

Edvard Munch. A brittle dryness juxtaposed with a colourful wetness. Mad, chaotic, funny, silent and lonely. Tragicomedy.