Oh! But how the spring returns to our weary bodies like salvation. Greenwich village was full of people today, so many people: where have they been all winter? They interfere with my quick trajectory down Hudson Street, but I can hold no grudge against them now. The sun is too bright, the air too warm with birdsong; I forgive them all.
I took a long walk downtown last night, in that misty weather the city had then, albeit warm. And as I traced the edge of the island, brilliant fiery sunset drifting off behind New Jersey, did not the skyscrapers of my beloved city glitter particularly? These, my pillars of strength, the building blocks of not only a town but also of my otherwise shaky insides, did they not tower something fierce in the approaching darkness? Oh, how I love my little village, but the buildings are small, and tight, and you forget so easily what a remarkable wonderland this is, how it pulsates and moves with a rhythm bending to no mortal rules. We will all die before New York does. It will not miss us, nor remember us truly. But we walk on its soil now, and leave the slightest tremble in its beat.
It is all we can ask.
It is more than we ever could dream.
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