I worry that New York is maybe a little too big for a little old boy from little old Wicklow to really experience.
That I will curl up like a plant scared of being touched.
Like a woodlice being flicked.
Like a possum being scared.
Like a Lion being threatened.*
That fear or laziness or habit will put limits on the fact that I am living in a city where truly unbelievably awesome stuff is happening EVERY SINGLE SECOND.
That I will become localised. Or reduced to a definition or a group. That I won’t see any sights or have any adventures. That the days will blur into each other.
That is not going to happen.
I am going to plant my flag in this city.
I am going to make it my own.
New Rork City.
*Lions are cowards. Watch the Wizard of Oz.