I'd like to say that summer fills New York with tourists, but it's like this all year round. There's a constant whir of different languages in the air like mosquitoes and I love it. I read somewhere that a third of the people who live here were born abroad. So was my father, although he soon moved to California to be close to my mother.
I've said that I don't know why he killed himself but the truth is I do. He never told me so but I know he thought that if life isn't a fairy tale then what's the point? Sometimes on the edges of tall buildings I can feel it too, the difference is I dream of flying and not of falling. If I close my eyes and let the whirlwinds touch me it can all seem so very real, and that's when I have to open them again. I've never wanted anything other than to be alive in all this beauty, I just need to be reminded of that sometimes.