I think cities can only be really appreciated from above. Especially after dark.
Flying into Los Angeles past eleven the previous night, something about its scope struck a chord somewhere in me. During the day, the sun illuminates every corner and crevice and the unbridled baldness of every visual assaults you; it's too much for your system to handle. At night, however, only the light, the electricity, is visible.
Illimitable tiny pinpricks, perforating a pitch black field, only suggest, rather than outright show, the sheer depth and spread of the city. Each light is a tiny testament to human industry; for all the thousand, thousand street lights, headlights and porchlights, there were people responsible, people who designed, constructed and sweat to make each possible and, from thirty thousand feet, they are infinite.
I couldn't help imagine the sensation over Hong Kong or New York or Tokyo.
Makes me feel lazy. Makes me want to stamp the world.
Beyond that, returning to the city invigorates me. I feel like Jerusalem, smelling, tasting, absorbing the squalor, the stink, the clamor. After a month in the quiet, being tossed back into the frenzy, the limitless faces and places, stimulates me to no end. May I never live too far from the honking, sweating pandemonium.
Also I bought a squirt gun for six dollars.