Ladies and gentlemen, I've cracked it. The code of the cement jungle, the sidewalk slang. I have finally found the beating heart of this urban sprawl, not in the pulsing bass of the club district, nor the armani shuffling of the business sector. Not in the paper parade of city hall, or the gentle humm of the power stations. The heart of it all is the market.
No where else can you see hipster and hippy, business man and bint rubbing elbows and clamoring for the same esoteric tidbits that we all thrive on. The dragon fruit pies and the chimichangas with that extra bit of changa. The folded wraps and the beer on tap, the care worn bags and a dress that drags, and all the little things you can't find anywhere else.
We are united by our need for the unique, for that which is chic yet timeless. Those rare few objects that permeate the bounds of the class structure and bring us all some measure of joy, and bring us together in the search for that last bit of humanity we all share.
The dull buzz of the crowd grows, syncs up, and creates a melody like no other. People speaking, shifting, singing and breathing all as one, yet each their own. This is the pulse of the city, the warm glow that circulates through every district and every home. This is where the city finds it heart, and breathes joy into the rest of it's quivering mass.
Thus is life.
