My relationship with New York often feels like a darkly comic scene in a movie, coming after much buildup about the legendary heroism and greatness of some off-screen personality.
They finally appear, bathed in glory, turn their eyes towards the protagonist, open their mouth to speak — only to get unceremoniously vaporized by a stray bullet.
The protagonist blinks, wearily, wipes off the spattered gore, and returns to the plot-as-usual.
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