I love New York City at night. There is something haunting, and beautiful, and lonely about it.
It’s one of my favorite things, anytime of year, to walk up near Central Park or out by the East River. The city is at it’s most serene, and I get lost in the everything and the nothing.
I peer nosily into the lit up apartments on Madison Avenue, and I wonder who lives there and how’d they get there, and are they happy there. I envision myself up there, a little closer to the clouds.
I peek at the doormen on Park Avenue and think how bored they must be, standing around all night, just to open some rich schmuck’s door. Paunchy old men accompanied by skinny young women enter and exit the marbled lobbies, their motives painfully obvious.
I pass by homeless men, settling in to sleep on grates and cardboard boxes; and tonight, a woman living in her car with her two small children. And I’m brought back down to earth.
These streets are for everyone. These streets, for a time, in the quiet of the night, are mine.