I’ve lived in New York City, for years, fearing what might come from the deep recesses of an alley way.

I used to think of the knife’s handle, held with a grimy, concealed grip. Poised to kill for the most humble wad of cash, or the most decadent gold leaf diamond trim—it makes no difference. There is no discussion. There is no reasoning when you’re alone in the swift blur of lights, fading away in the clutch of cold steel.

Alone in the midst of a friendless generation. The comotose blue toothers talk to untouchables miles away while ignoring those in reach. Those like me, streaming thick ropes of blood awash in the cloak of darkness.

I reach out for help with my voice—unheard in the mass chatter of cell phone isolation. Isolation among millions.

But I’m ok with the stresses of an urban environment now. Plenty of Wellbutrin and a .45 on my waist keeps me feeling safe enough to live. Drugs and guns makes me a happy American.