"i think the city is killing him."

after biking over the williamsburg bridge and back the upside-down flag waving and bell ringing and riding downhill with calves flexed in anticipation and happiness, even after adam and tyson sweated their way through another set in my steamy basement and i stood transfixed by the twin wooden sticks that the drummer plys as his heartfelt trade, yes, even after all that, i had nothing to say to anyone in conversation except: "i think the city is killing him."

yesterday was one of the happiest days i've spent in the city that's killing him, red-faced and riddled with flea bites like flakes of hot chilli pepper spread all over my body.

"what do you think you should do?"
" i dunno, i dunno how to swim."
"well why is he so insistent on crossing the east river?"
"i guess its something to do. some people just need something to do."
"what the fuck is this, a stupid raymond carver short story about stoicism and the left-unsaid!?!"
shudder. "i don't like carver's stories, everybody loves him. eileen really likes him. anyway, dude, its my life dude."
"dude. oh yo here comes that guy you're in love with, the one you draw all those pictures of. you're a terrible artist"
"i know, its so sad, i can't draw. my sister is so good. i just want it not to be so shitty."
"what?"
"the dying."
"yeah well you're asian."
"i need a hug."
hug. sniff. snot. drip. beer. spit. the city kills in its sleep. we go to bed at dawn, staving off the damage done in its wake, limbs dripping with exhausion and fatigue rolling down my face in salty waves. none of my friends got arrested, so this morning at seven thirty we sat around in a wobbly uneven circle and recounted the stories that happened to us throughout the night. i could only think that the city is killing him, and i can't swim, and who's to say whose drowning anyway?