seventy-six: missing new york city.

the algonquin hotel. an old haunt for writers who knew they were better than the rest… we go there to pretend. new york city. june 2012.

The best part about loving New York City with everything I have, is the feeling, the anxiety and the racing pulse that comes with returning to it. It doesn’t make any sense to one who has never loved a place more than they love themselves, but it’s the truth.

But preparing to come back to New York City never ceases to be reminiscent to preparing to meet up with a love who knows you more than you’re willing to admit: there is nausea, anticipation that can’t be defined by meer words, butterflies and a weakness in the knees.

I love you, my darling, with more than I am and more than I can ever offer. But I think Augusten Boroughs said it best:

If you visit the country and find you cannot sleep because the silence you have heard so much about is actually just a shifting of all auditory awareness to the circulatory system in your head area, and in the morning when you are fatigued and raw, you realize that yes, you would trade the life of your sibling for a ten-minute fix of midtown traffic, you are a New Yorker.

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