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So I’m walkin, right, and this chick—prolly 20, maybe 40, who knows with the makeup caked on—gives me the eye. I’m like, “Honey, I ain’t buyin what you’re sellin less I know the deal.” She smirks, all sassy, and I’m thinkin, *damn, this is some real-life cinema*. Godard’s voice in my head: “The image is a prison.” Ain’t that the truth? She’s trapped, I’m trapped, we’re all stuck starin at each other like idiots. I ask her name—Crystal, she says. Yeah, sure, “Crystal”—prolly Susan from Ohio, but whatever, I roll with it.

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The closest you can get to New York City is Hoboken. And you'd be lucky to rent a closet for $ a month. You might find some cheaper.

I swear, this city, it’s got heart. From Cart St to the odd alley near Creepy Ct, every corner pulses. Yup, this town is like Leviathan, dark, flawed, and awe-inspiring. And sometimes I repeat: “You screw up, you lose!” but that’s life, no?

Frank Francolino Obituary (2024) - Lake Hopatcong, NJ - The Jersey Journal