New York is a lonely place for dieing.
And die we do each day.
Closer and closer as we strive to
make each moment count,
each second perfect.
As morality slips away.
Some turn to the stoned crucified deity
of shame.
Some turn the bottle of enteral spirit.
Some turn inward and dissapear.
Yet all of us face the same end.
And in the end we are alone.
New York is a lonely place for dieing.
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