The Village never changes, only the people do, ushering in and out, a sad progression of lost souls inundating these sacred streets, drug deals in Washington Square Park, blow jobs in the dirty toilets of the Club Bizarre, innocent tourists stacked on double decks, snapping photos of the inhabitants of this foreign land -- we are a zoo without cages, but still too dangerous to encounter face to face, transvestites giggling and posing on their perch near Christopher and 6th Avenue, blowing kisses like missiles for which there is no defense. Runaways paying their way with cheap tricks, they way they always do, stepping over the nodding junkies, the broken wine bottles, the parade of syringes and copies of the Village Voice, Hells Angels rev—ing their bikes on Third Street, Jesus freaks saving souls a block away on 4th, while I hover over a cup of coffee at the last great diner with my window seat on the world, waiting for I don’t know what, but certain to know if when I see it, if I ever do, searching out the passing faces for someone, anyone I might recognize, forced to settle for my own sad reflection in the glass.
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