City

My city is perfect.
It has always had those dodgy areas and alleys you just know never to venture down. It is home to thousands of homeless souls, lost to wandering, begging, and bleakly existing. In some corners it reeks of decay and waste. It is desperately dark when the sun drops below the horizon. The mildew-y houses are locked, dead bolted, gated, locked, and dead bolted again. Every person you pass on the street is a suspect. You go about your day with your head down; it doesn’t encourage conversation. Its streets are stained with grime and age. Its drains constantly emanate hot sulfurous steam. Its crowds are overwhelming. Its districts are sandwiched together. Its property literally costs you an arm and a leg. Its pace and bustle are relentless. Its scene is merciless.
My city is perfect.
It invites you to explore its treasures and lesser-known wonders. It calls to travelers, wanderers, lovers, dreamers, and seekers. It gleans with history and novelty. The sun grazes the juxtaposed yet coinciding trees and buildings. The beautiful old houses are fortified tastefully and magnificently. Every face you see is of a different race, culture, history, and background. You walk the streets like you own them; it almost forces an internal dialogue of the soul. Its streets have been treaded by a billion stories. Its brilliance lies below and above the surface. Its gatherings are immense and powerful. Its boroughs are varied and in abundance. Its homes are priceless. Its scene is infinite.
My city is perfect.