The Lion's Mouth

Kamikazee leaves fall around, making up for the lack of promised rain, as the guardian lions watch my back. The sky is a half-assed grey, threatening to rain, but keeping it's calm, cool, concreted New York pallor. It's an earphone kind of world, everyone living out their own fantasies as they pass by, not so much as a glance, or nod, communication at a minimum but we wouldn't want it any other way, would we?
It's the constant defecation on the senses that drives the tourists up and down Broadway, through Times Square. The lights, the sounds, the giant video screens blasting commercials into our sub-conscious. Madame Tussauds, with it's giant gold hand pointing to us, almost in a condeming gesture as people gawk at the effigy of plastic death in the form of a static Whoopi Goldberg.
It's un-natural, this place. It's like walking through a dream, the sidewalks and streets turning into glue-like damnation, pulling you down to its level, forcing you to reality.
A chorus of happy birthday chimes out from behind popped caps of brown paper bags. They sing this celebrating another year gone by on the street in ratty blue sweaters and glistening bottles. They sing, commemorating one more year closer to death. Recognizing time passing when time has no meaning to them. No place to be, no place to go.
The yellow taxi horns bleed through my earphones and then I realize: This is it. New York. Thank fucking God.