Intimacy

New York City disgusts me. Overstimulation. The many anonymous yellow taxis. The tall ugly gray buildings. And the people… so many people.

Faces attached to similarly hurrying, impatient legs. Each face knew exactly the same thing about all of the other people squeezing in around him: that they were all attached to quickly moving legs. Not a drop of mercury expanding into the intimacy meter’s stalk. There, where people can revel in being both the most physically close and the most emotionally distant that they will ever be from others of their own species.

My disgust, which had hit me as soon as I saw the towering edifices, disappeared when I closed my eyes, leaving in its wake a throbbing blue afterimage of the outlines of buildings; the residue of sadness tinged with violet pity.

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