These are the cities I lived, loved, slept, played, cried, learned and lost in.
They shaped me, and I, in turn, do to them the disservice of misshaping them into these works of art.
This is what I saw.
This what I carry with me.
This is what I remember.
If I went back tomorrow, these places, those moments would be long gone.
Who’s to say they ever existed at all?
Eye witness accounts are the least reliable form of evidence.
There are no facts, only interpretations.
A beloved restaurant, a city block that feels like home, a passing glance along a oft-traveled bus route, a neglected graveyard found on a solitary wander, the play of light on concrete, a sacred God-filled mountain, a bridge between boroughs: these are my contaminated memories.