New York is one of the most provincial and isolated places I know. They never get asked questions about escape, or if they are it’s always about the price-of-rent bullshit. I mean, there are still 60-year-old men in that city running around telling anecdotes about how they knew the fucking Ramones. There are people running around with the same tattoos and uniform on and reading the same shitty books. They’re the ones who need to escape. Their fashion is the spiritual equivalent of bell bottoms, but nobody asks them questions about escaping. You can be a shitty artist anywhere.
Scott McClanahan, in Dazed (via electric-cereal)