It has sculptural form. This condition, though permanent, is always on the change, depending on the position of the subject: you. You do not feel small in the streets and sidewalks as you might expect, because the grid is always opening a new perspective a different vanishing point and the sky, and because the avenues are wide. The immense physical three-dimensionality encourages your soul to expand rather than contract – you are a brave Mother having the courage to walk around here, and you are a cool fucker too, lounging around a coffee stand on the corner of 37th and Lex smoking a Strike as if you were a close personal friend of Robert de Niro. Does it seem as though there is something missing? Not so much as it seems that there is something known.
The narrative of 9/11crosses your mind often. America may be an Imperialist Culturalist bastard, but only those stripped of senses could fail to appreciate the beauty of Manhattan, and only the gruesome dogma of the fanatic could have you walk a block, hear the accents and music of thirty different nationalities and still believe that by crashing a plane into a building you were attacking anything other than your own sense of self-loathing.