We’re walking the line, jazz fans. The line between order and chaos. Between life and death. With Albany’s Finest on one side, with their foraging parties, checkpoints and guns, and New York on the other, with her tough as nails civilians, her zombies, and her guns, we’re walking the line, fans, the line we must stick to in order to survive another day, like a tightrope over the howling abyss, incredibly narrow and precarious, thinner than rope, too thin to see… in fact, you can’t see it. It’s metaphorical, this line. That’s how thin it is.
New Yorkers are no stranger to lines. We walk them all the time. We hand pretty girls a line, we snort lines, we drive over lines, and we stand on them. No one knows better than us how to walk a fine line. But this line feels line-ier, somehow. Perhaps because the line is so fine, it’s hard to find, especially under all that gum on the sidewalk.
But New York, we can search all day and never find the line. Because the line is inside us. It’s an inner path that we all must harken to discover. Which technically means it’s not really a line, so much as a squiggle. And how the hell are we supposed to walk the line if it’s inside us? I mean, come on, I’m as Zen as the next guy, who is me, but aren’t we asking a bit much? To walk a line that’s inside us? I mean, I just had these shoes cleaned!
But we’re New Yorkers, and we’re tough. And if anyone can walk a line that can’t be walked, found or located externally, it’s New York City! And if you buy that line, I got a bridge to sell you!