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Are you ready for another drink? he says, and we nod before we have the chance to think about it. Hours later, we fall out onto St Mark's and feign thievery at the place with the cotton candy. It's all a ruse.

The City has turned cold, of late. I run along the river with chattering teeth, only a few scattered joggers left in the wind. The golden yellow Morton Street gingkos shed their fur overnight, and winter arrives like a slap in the face. But I walk home across a pitch black Washington Square Park, cutting across MacDougal into Minetta Lane to that short, quiet stretch where you think you're in another place completely. I rolled a cigarette in the middle of the street and thought there is no other place I would rather be.

It's hard to be so sure of just one thing,
and doubt exactly everything else
about life.