…it’s not my favorite skyscraper, it’s not the roof of the Met, it’s not the bridges, it’s not the statuary. Mostly it’s the bleary light on the tiles and the free papers in the gutter and the sharp smell of dyed carnations. It’s the traffic island at the mouth of Second Avenue and the sensation of giving yourself over to other people’s movement.

My point is, New York, I’ll see you tomorrow. It’s been a while and I want to get real mundane with you.