It’s my second day in New York. “Concrete jungle where dreams are made.” Whatever. That song never got to me. It’s Wednesday. “We’re half-awake in a fake empire.” That’s more like it. I roll out of bed. I choose to. I never do this back in Cairo. Fucking Cairo. This is a day in New York. I cannot waste two hours staring at my room trying to exist. Or trying to exist somewhere else. I am somewhere else. I am in New York. I am here. I’m alive. I bite into a slice of leftover pizza from last night. Still pretty good. Fucking Ray’s. Pepperoni. Cheese. Dough. Salivating. What happened last night? I fell asleep at the bar and was walked home. That’s when I got that pizza, and made way for that bit of wine I’m gulping. Breakfast. I’m still dressed. Convenient.
“We’re half-awake in a fake empire.”
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