Every morning that I cross east on the equator of Manhattan I have a choice to make: do I take 27th or 28th?
The difference is one between virile daydreams and a softer, redolent reality.
For across 28th resides the splendor of the City’s wholesale floral and garden district. And across 27th lies FIT, the Fashion Institute of Technology.
Both aesthetically please, one with a taunting-tease, the other via soothing aromatic serenity—one works me up, the other calms me down.
Thus, my staggering druthers—turn or keep walking, yearn or yawn, promenade amongst pistils and petals or slabber secretly amidst the thrall of aspirants to glamour?
Nothing hammers away at me as daily as having to choose entre floral highs and fauna blues, between he-loves-mes and she does not lust for me too. For one’s far more promising than the other; one evokes benignly while the other mercilessly provokes.
Which is why, in the end, I find flowers to be much prettier.
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