The serenity of a voluntary insomnia at 3 a.m., getting out of bed and walking silently barefoot over algid floorboards; standing by an open window with the February winds blowing through your clothes, glittering city streetlights like a starry winter sky outside.
New York is my sanctuary, the complete opposite of the mental institution that is Los Angeles and my home. I can breathe here, the air seems lighter somehow, my footsteps less strained knowing I don't have to put on the mask of popular convention wherever I go.
They say you can never run away from yourself and maybe it's true. Maybe this is all just a dream, but in it I get to be whoever I want and I'm not yet ready to wake up. The taste of disinhibition is just way too sweet. Come with me if you like.