It’s kind of a crazy story, actually. And even crazier when you think about all the times I almost died. And all the times I almost died but didn’t know I almost died. 

Now, you’re wondering if there are times that you almost died but didn’t know it. Those times when death is right around the left corner but you don’t go that way and you don’t notice what you just passed by. You don’t know that you almost just died. 

And now you’ve had your first unnatural thought.

You know, not all brushes with death come through air. The deadliest are almost always done at a moment’s notice - one final strike of wind and the ghoul becomes the ghost of a girl. I think I have spent too much time in the unborn land. The space and time when everything is dark. Bound by the walls around you, there is no place to go. There is nothing to do but your mind keeps it’s pace. Everything is warm but your frozen and the setting is unknown. Pitch black, like closing your eyes. At first you see nothing without your sight but slowly, your imagination takes over. You start to paint landscapes with your mind. Visions appear. The land of the unborn becomes the sky in which you will fall out once your time has come. 

I’m not sure where I am in the plot line or if I’ve even moved an inch but I can tell it’s no good down here. I’m still speaking from the tomb and I’m starting to feel the weight of everything I’ve said before this moment in time. My words keep increasing their depth. The more I say, the farther I go. The page is winding, I’m getting longer, the reasoning is slipping.

I keep scrolling for more information. Pushing the boundaries of what I know and what is knowledge. I don’t know what I’m thinking of. I can’t see what I’m looking for but I can tell there’s more to go and so I just keep going. In my world direction there is no left corner. The compass only points more north. I am digging a tunnel of my own undoing. I am clawing out after being buried alive and I can’t get the grandfather’s I never met out of my mind.

Down here.

I am a sicilian father, underneath the earth, digging the tunnels that will house the Q trains extension into the Upper East Side of New York City. I am dying from the fumes I am inhaling daily and I won’t live long enough to meet my grandchildren. I am giving up my life so that my descendants can live the American Dream.

Down here.

I am an italian father who owns an italian deli on the promenade in The Bronx. Everyone who comes into the store knows be my name. One day, the floors of the store will reveal that death is around the corner for me. I won’t live past that summer and I won’t get to see my children marry. 


I am the unearthing of men who believed
in a world bigger than themselves.

I am the child of the men
who gave up their lives for me. 


I am a child of the American dream.
I am New York, New York.


The city is my blood.
The dream is my lineage.


Wait until I tell you about the women
my grandfather’s married.