I do walk the city’s contours at night, its low electric current seeping in. With those long drives after all these fruitful nights, what’s left but to memorize that body, know it well enough to (almost) call it your own? You’ve got to know your host—all million and a half of us must, whether we’re platelets or parasites. (Who sees you as which? I see some stranger as a parasite, and she reciprocates.)

But wherever we lie, whatever our trajectory, we all want to make the city move. To make it move, to catch its rhythm like breath, we must submit ourselves. We must be as devoted to our action as we are to our longing, as committed to firmness as we are wedded to desire. That’s when the city undulates, shifts so slightly and buckles so readily. All we need is our will. All we need is to become aware of our motion, and to make it concerted. To make it in concert.

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