This city is shrinking in around me. Kids wearing $50 shirts asking for 50 cents pressing in from the left, overpriced cars cutting me off on the right. Behind me, overweight cops with shaved heads glaring from blacked-out SUVs while up ahead another gold-digger stares up from her plate on the outdoor patio of a restaurant destined to close in two months. The rain, the heat, the dirty snow, the constant fucking construction, the unchanging festivals, the river fireworks, all the standard city entertainment that turns into a torturous film reel after a single viewing. I’m nauseous from the nightly train rides scored by overdriven cellphone speakers, transit cops performing their ideas of toughness, elderly vanilla women chirping back and forth about nothing at 5:30 in the morning. I’m sick to death of this city and if I’m cursed to die here I’ll still hate it from six feet below the ground. Sick of the corner asshole on the stepladder preaching about his hate for fags, sick of the Bambi-eyed college students fighting for everything but their own plan for life. Sick of my father who ran away from me, sick of my mother who made me run away from her. Sick of everybody I see from morning to night. Sick of this sick world. I’m sick to my stomach and I don’t believe we have time left to be cured.