Dusktime Central Park

Starting at the northwest corner of Central Park, I meandered into wide empty spaces of branches jigsawing the dusky New York skyline. The trees bared all they had to me, standing shamelessly against a backdrop of intermittent skyscrapers. Heading southwards, but eventually angling to the southeast, I walked aimlessly about for one and a half hours as the sky melted slowly into a pool of black oil.

As you stroll around, people pop up here and there, sometimes arm in arm, sometimes hand in hand, and once a foot on mouth (I felt for the poor dog just nibbling some grass). Mainly, you don't hear much of what's going on, the sounds being sucked up into the nothingness that New York suddenly evaporates into. Nowhere can you see the clockwork brains and trench-coat conquer-the-worlds marching forth, typing away everyone's lives, one letter at a time. You're swallowed now, churning in this still organic pit of NYC's bowels.

It shit me out on the southeast edge, a stain on the corner of 66th and 5th. Luckily for all of its greenery, I slid out without ado, trotting gracefully across the murderous cars held momentarily by the angry red eyes. I walked by fake piles of discarded facial tissue and reconstructed bones, the stench so graciously calmed by the lingering taste of my generic coffee. Little did I notice the dancing lights as they crissed and crossed the streets and my line of sight.

You went down a deep dark tunnel into the underworld of NYC. You go there to be transported, to be sent back from whence you came! Cast back into your origin, you pop back up into another street, sometimes dense and crowded, mainly just a few pedestrians by the halal cart. The jitterbug home is quick and easy, but the walk was not to forget. The angry and tormented silence sang beautiful tunes through your frost-bitten ears and they rang with you all the way home.