to walk in money through the night crowd, protected by money, lulled by money, dulled by money, the crowd itself a money, the breath money, money, money, everywhere and still not enough, and then no money or a little money or less money. money makes money.
again the dance hall, the love that comes over the radio, the impersonal, wingless touch of the crowd.
to be almost inhuman because u are human.
we taxi from one perfection to another.
and the city seems to be the highest form of madness, each and every part, organic or inorganic, an expression of the same madness.