Warm press of bodies in the trains and arguments about politics. They hold each other up to better shout in each other’s faces. Oh, fiercely put! Fingers shaken, etc. Between stops they sway into each other like seaweed, still talking. They argue about everything, the price of beer, the Homeless Problem, the people of the other side of the world (and what it means to do about them).

They are a nation of experts.

Nights they gather in bars and clubs, pressed together, drink heavily, lean in close and shout over the music, the crowd. They make out in hurried corners, in alleyways, in bathrooms. Drunk on life and genever. They rush home in pairs, triples, groups and singly, press together again, hold each other up, hands busy, tongues busy, alight with the possibility of a glorious forever.

Mornings they eat endless plates of hash browns in diners made out of old railway cars. They drink too much coffee, laugh too loudly, enjoy life too broadly.

The city lives on.