The City Never Sleeps

The city quickens, its breath speeds up. It gazes on the sun, coming up over the horizon. It is not fully awake – it will not truly awaken for hours yet – but it is starting to become more aware. The city never sleeps. It might lie silently in the small hours of the morning, but it never sleeps. There is always someone awake in it, flowing through its veins, and as long as even one of its denizens is awake, the city never sleeps. When it becomes fully conscious, sometime around noon, the pulsing crowd drive and walk around, and the city sings. It sings many songs, but mostly of its giant heart. The city sings, and shouts. It shouts of advertisement, whispering quietly on a bus bench, yelling on signboards, and screaming aloud in vast banners draped over its bones, the buildings and tall towers. The city shouts, and as night falls, it begins to change once again. The city is alive in a different way at night: it pulses, it dances, and it whispers more than it yells or screams. Its pulse pounds at a party, and sighs across sleeping buildings. As long as one person is awake, though, the city never sleeps. And there are always people who are awake in the small hours of the morning, the people who keep 24/7 stores and restaurants running, the people you never see. They will be gone, in the morning, with other people to take their place. But through it all, the city sings, and it shouts, and it pounds with its own pulse. The city never sleeps.