Masque Milano Times Square New York sucks. It stinks of cheap stale tobacco and dense exhaust fumes. The jam seems endless and reeks of hot rubber and stale steam. People are weird. The fashionista in the bright green stilettos asks for a huge pretzel. And it smells like rough street food of any kind. Cinnamon and chips. Mustard and caramel. The cherry on the sex worker's red lipstick melts with the strawberry on her gum. The side alleys are just trash and urine. But you find your way through the crowds of single women waiting for the male strip show, and it will be a flood of spikenard and carnation. I feel like taking a walk tonight. I'm going for my crab cakes and a burger. I breathe the miasmas of the city when I arrive at the place.