Concrete Jungle where Dreams are Made Of.

I want to go to New York. It's where I'd rather be. Just being there, doing absolutely nothing, and walking to nowhere in particular would put the goofiest smile on my face. The people, the skyscrapers, the hot dog vendors, and the ticket sellers. The scent of the sewers and the car smoke permeating the air, broken only by fleeting smells of salted pretzels, coffee, and sometimes even Chinese food. And in the wee hours of the morning when I can't sleep, I'll go up to our roof and listen to the sounds of the city. What was so poetic in my dreaming head will give life to nothing more than garrish sirens and aggressive car honks. And the stars I imagined to be canopied above me will dim in the wake of the city lights leaving nothing but the moon. Much like the myth of the city, only one will really shine. But the wind will carry the sounds back and forth and the night will blanket me in understanding. And though it'll amount to nothing I thought it would, it'll be the fabled Big Apple, the Grecian mecca of its time, a city with skyscrapers towering to remind us of our true size and alive enough to show us that it doesn't really matter.