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  • I miss it.
    I've never lived there; I've only visited for days or weeks, once for months.

    I've been there in several incarnations: business traveler, husband, lover, friend.
    Each trip was wildly divergent in purpose and achievement; each time something drove me out into the city from dusk to dawn.
    Some happened on foot, some by train and cab.

    This one, the best, by bicycle. This one you see here.

    This night had passion, lies, love, anger, fear, betrayal.
    It had soul-penetrating stares of desire, and the same of alarm and hurt.
    It was me, and it was the city, at best and worst.
    Tender and callous at once. More than callous. Cruel.

    Like rain seeping into a crack, later to expand in the freeze and crumble its host, this was a night that would take its toll on my structural makeup much later.
    There were more rains and more freezes, of course (this sort of erosion rarely happens at once) but this one I remember, and I see how it did its unflinching part.
    What seemed solid revealed itself to be rife with fissures that would deepen and connect, little by little.

    This was unknown to the man behind this camera.

    Here, this moment you see through my eye, climbing the bridge over a sleepy Chinatown?
    This was happiness in solitary adventure, the dawn amplifying contradictory feelings.
    Feelings that by virtue of their newness quickened my heart and made me feel alive.
    Would that it had stopped there.
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