Text and photographs by Charlene Winfred
At sunrise, the only beginning is the blear of eyes from an all nighter.
This is the city that never sleeps.
Here is where it's all possible: the rise and fall of fortunes, where night is the real day, and day is little more than a prelude to the opportunity of neon infused fortune.
This is the city that never wakes.
Where each step through the passage of time is a slip of cotton stamped with a grave man's countenance.
Time, money. Money, time.
If you have enough of one, you think you can buy the other.
In this city, more than most others, that which glitters looks a lot like gold.