I walked home on New Year’s Day. 5:30 in the morning. Freezing cold with the ghosts of too many drinks tormenting my head.

The city had won.

It had welcomed me with open arms; given me a false sense of security…of control…of home. Had I not been blinded by the city’s mask of beauty, I would have seen Valencia’s right fist speeding towards my face. As the blows pounded at my chest, I did nothing, still intoxicated by the brilliance of the night.

The city stole my wallet, my camera, my night, as I walked home on New Year’s Day, covered in Valencia’s pain.