I’m standing on Lexington Avenue. The road curves into the horizon, skyscrapers on either side, drawing a line straight into the sky. Like a modern yellow brick road. The city stuffed with a million wizards, pulling the levers of success. I’m in love. With the crowded, sexy chaos. The steaming street vents. The assault of odours; bagels and pizza competing with garbage and hot tarmac. Chrome and steel fighting for sky space with art deco mouldings and gorgeous lines of stone and marble. The babble of a thousand accents, languages, voices. The irony of strident street tones folded into muted boardroom dealings. I’m awestruck. I walk in to things, my eyes too often drawn upward, to the spires of our new religion; commerce, greed, power. I watch beautiful women click their way up Maddison, talking on cell phones, smaller and smaller dogs in tow. I listen to the street vendors, plying their trade and talking politics. I watch old couples sit on benches, wrinkled hands enfolded, and I wonder if they’ve lived here all their lives. The city is more than landscape. It is flesh and bone. Breathing smoke and fire. And I want to burn.