"Manhattan, summer, my kind of place, my kind of time.

Cab grilles snarl in the boomerrang light. The subways's foetid lung exhales. Winos strip to the earliest sartorial stara - salamon pink t-shirts and sepia string vests, emblems of the pasts drink and I have stolen. Garbage trucks chow down on the city's ordure - what a sight: the slow-chewing maw with its stained teeth and heady halitosis. Beautiful. The sun-hot sidewalks give up their ghosts of piss and dogshit. Treacle-coloured roaches conduct their dirty business while pot-bellied rats cloak-and-dagger through the shadows. The pigeons look they've been dipped in gasoline and blow-dried.

Manhattan, summertime. All those frayed tempers and stirred wants. The varicosed hookers smack-retching into the drains, the payrolled plod, the manicured villains, the mainlined TV, the Christian porn starlets, the genocidal nerds, the lies, the greed, the self-absorption, the politics. It's my Design Arguement. Harlem, the Bronx, Wall Street, the Upper East Side - these clocks don't need winding. Give me white men and a brace of centuries, I give you New York City, my Sistine Chapel, about to be - thanks to my left hand knowing perfectly well what my right one's doing - in fruitful need of restoration. Some restoration job that'll be, believe me."

- Lucifer, "I, Lucifer" by Glen Duncan

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