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There's one thing you can say about New York: The public art is crap. You need to make your own combinations for it to have any meaning at all...

People say it's exhausting here. All the buzz taps you of energy. All the noise makes you tired. And the ohmygods strip the city of all the edge and dignity it had.

I don't know. I wasn't here ten-twenty years ago so I don't need to complain. And the "oh-remember-when-we-were-afraid-to-get-mugged"-nostalgia seem similarly stupid to the ostalgia of the East Germans, longing back to beige days of Stasi controlled children programmes.

New York is good for me, good to me. I get energy from energy. I like to sit and write at some café late on a Wednesday night and not being the only one working (and not being labelled "sad fuck, no life" or "pretentious fuck, showing off"). When everyone else is also moving, aiming, on their way somewhere, I can relax and focus.

London also works for me. And funnily, so does Mallorca. Someone told me that the buzz many feel when on the island comes from being right on top of the crossing of several subterranean geomagnetic currents.

Bullshit? Who cares. I like it there. I like it here.