Flowing through the effluvial streets on an electric neon rickshaw. Hey lady! Yes, you! I see you standing over there all stationary and unsatisfied. The thing that would make your life complete in this moment is two wheels under your ass and seven billion hot-pink needles stabbing your eyes, wreathing you in the twinkle glow of city streets. See the pale strangers, all sharp angles and upturned grimaces. I will paint them upon your breast that you may feel their pointy elbows jabbing you deep in your bosom. The jagged pulse of the moonlight and the sweaty steam-stink of the city’s hot breath will permeate your soul. This is The City, the only real one on Earth, where the halal man pushes his tiny cart upstream against a flood of honking snarling machines that long only to smear his guts upon the asphalt. The city’s clogged arteries crave the rush of your blood. The cackling street vendors yearn to grind up your frail shivery bones and sell them on steamed buns with little packets of wishes and antipathy that ravenous denizens must open with gnashing teeth. Smell that city air! Feel it bore into your lungs like the bark beetle gorging on vital essences! Feel your bones and hair grow sere and brittle! Let the hot steam wash over you and dissolve you away. The city that never sleeps and always steeps. Why are you still standing there on that hard concrete and not stepping into this dream?