To the Bowery, a love letter

It was beautiful and boisterous on the Bowery, as always. And Aedan, as ever, was charmed by the sights and sounds of a stroll along that throng-choked boulevard. And as ever, he could be comfortable to be lost among this crowd, this cacophony. The pleasure of anonymity in such surroundings appealed to him. To be among, but not of. Alone, but not lonely or isolated. A certain elegance in such a mess—where the city would never be less than its true self. It was the place to see and be seen. Sure, Fourteenth Street had its highfalutin attractions, and Dutchtown beer halls were forever full of music and merriment, but on the Bowery … life burst forth on the stage and sidewalk alike. The show was everywhere and anywhere. Performers and characters of all forms and acts appeared on the Bowery. Beggars and thieves and hookers profited from the density of humanity in the throes of gaiety. But even these types were compelled to revel in the bounty of the Bowery. The slums, so near, never seemed so far. It was the light, more than anything, Aedan realized. The galaxy of gas-lamps offered—and reflected—the profusion of joy among the performers, peddlers, and passersby. This glow, so foreign to the tenements and their alleyways, bathed their inhabitants in radiance. It clarified, enlightened, and uplifted with equality and without prejudice.

Kinda rough (and probably not too accurate) but oh well.