He loves NYC, but it ain't ever gonna love him back.
He's been a star. He's been a star to everyone. He shined so bright that now he's dim. The search to quench an insatiable thirst has left him emotionally comatose. There's a hole that no city, no camera flash, no cocktail, or guitar riff can fill. So many have tried to fill it, but with each attempt it grows deeper. He used to drown himself in the bevy of lights, glitz, and glamour to substitute for something that seemed beyond the bounds of possibility. It's like a parasite that ate at his stalactite-ridden soul, yet birthed a terrifying and exciting flame fanned by the winds of self-destruction and ambition.
He hasn't said goodbye, but the gogo prince of the faux fur rock scene has been noticeably dormant. Not necessarily only because of the copious amount of schoolwork bestowed on him during the last semester of his college career, but because of a recent manifestation of sudden and striking realizations. Greg Mania will always be Greg Mania; it is not merely an accessory one adorns themselves with for a night of debauchery. It's not a hair color that fades or a persona cultivated by virtue of shock value. It's a state of mind. Mania is how he sees the world: through a kaleidoscopic monocle hypersensitive to every sensory function. It's an inescapable state of mind, a blessing and a curse. Blessed to be free, cursed to be public.
He bled looks and read his books. But how can he feel so free yet so caged in a city that makes him feel like he matters? The only way to fill the hole is to take the next step. He doesn't care about what is, he cares about what could be.