I joined a poetry country called "Mahmoud Darwish", so elegant and simple and proud. Luckily, there was no immigration process. (Maybe it's also called Palestine, but it's harder to get into and out of, if you're from there.)
So, this is midtown, cranking into 4th on the gear stick, and it isn't even rush hour yet. Among the amped-up, purposeful sea of humanity, I spot another multi-tasker: a slim man with slicked-back hair in a dark mustard suit, crazily running down the cycle lane, texting on his Blackberry. Respect, homes. Taking it to another level.
"hey Georgie, you hear that? 'I love shit!' They can try my mother-fucking shit! Dang!"