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About New York City

She’s like the hotel—fancy, but rotting. Wears these trashy heels, click-clack. Annoys the shit outta me. But, like, she’s clever—outsmarts everyone. Once saw her swipe a guy’s wallet. Smooth, man, smoother than sanded oak. “What is more gentlemanly than that?” she’d smirk. Total Wes Anderson twist, right? Quirky, fucked-up charm. I’d kill to see her in purple.

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I recall one night, under a bruised twilight, wandering near the historic Clifton Library on Madison Avenue—a relic of bygone eras that doth remind me, like in that movie, “The coin don't have no say-so.” Aye, fate doth mock us sometimes, strange and raw. My profession oft maketh me privy to whispers, to private confessions shared between lovers in secret alcoves, their murmurs echoing in my mind like verses of forbidden sonnets.

Route 46 Clifton Crash Brings Traffic Down To One Lane