Is Anything?

Cars drift in and out of this luxurious bubble, suspended above the city streets. Beautiful people drift in and out the cars, floating through time and space, elegant and divine. I'm shivering on the street, looking up at a high rise New York apartment, and I can't stop, even though the air possess the warmth of every beautiful June night. My foot finds the first step leading to the apartment door, and I allow myself to be drawn up, carried along with all the people. Someone hands me a martini glass, and I politely and casually accept the drink; I sip urbanely and eloquently, I drink with the elegance of all the wealth around me. A beautiful young women sits on a couch, alternately smoking a cigarette and sipping her highball. As the warmth of the stars falls through the window, it casts a soft luminescence across her and all the other people in the flat. This little bubble - this little world - is positively aglow.

The year is 1926, and it's a beautiful night. I've been in this city for the past few weeks, and I plan on staying for a while longer. When I find myself moved, I suppose I'll find somewhere else to take root - at least for a little while. I've never been comfortable with the idea of staying anywhere too long; I imagine myself as a transient image, flitting in and out of the still air of whatever glowing city possesses my soul at that particular moment. I see people, or things - anything really, anything that intrigues me - and I let it draw me up into... whatever it is. And then I stay there for awhile, soaking in the images and the vibrancy of my surroundings. And then I move on. My life is fleeting, but I don't mind the impermanence. After all, is anything really permanent?