It was that twilight hour when the world seems to hang suspended like a crescendo held by a musician who knows the secrets of the grave? As I looked on down the street, I noticed the cherubs of the asphalt playing and weeping under the neon lights of Manhattan; those kids with sticky fingers and unpolished opalescent eyes that scream at the indifferent moon like banshees. Those unblinking eyes remain unaware of time’s sad weight or the frantic hustle of people rushing to nowhere on subway cars of despair. Lost innocence is just a viral load of pre-fabricated memories — a soft-focus dream of life through a syringe. Innocence is a naked, uncorrupted, and radiating wild celestial light that shatters the grey skull of the city and leaves its angels gasping for one more breath of the soul’s pure oxygen before the sun rises and the shadows grow teeth.
