New York City Is Dead, Because I Killed It When I Left and Went Back Home to Pittsburgh: An Essay About Murder
The city is dead," I said, aloud, to no one, while each step I took crashed the same cement I'd fallen in love with. The pizza box I lugged with me-filled, just 32 minutes earlier, with a New York City pizza slice-was empty, except for crumbs. Heh. A metaphor, for the dead city.