I had been walking for almost 40 minutes down Bowery with my eyes glued to my phone screen. A native New Yorker would have been there already, but I opted to tread cautiously. I did not want to risk getting hit by a car before being able to complete my pilgrimage.
As I approached the black awning I tried to picture the city in the 70’s. A stark contrast to the clean, gentrified street I found myself on. I pictured a crowd of misfits, banding together in the night, drawn to this place because of it’s dirty, raw energy.
It’s a high end clothing store now.
The only real thing left is writing on the concrete just outside the threshold of the door. It sits there like a grave. Punk is dead.