It smells like rain; the tiniest drops begin to hit you when you reach the river, and it could just be mist from the sea. You cross at least five worlds on your way across the avenues. You could just as well have moved across the globe as twelve blocks east, but you didn't, and your love for the city grows a thousand times in your heart (repeatedly, incessantly, perpetually) at the insight. Across the water, Brooklyn lies grey and surprisingly industrial, the pasta factory a concrete behemoth reminder of times past.
It occurs to you that this place is becoming a large collection of moments past. You don't understand how you could ever be anywhere else, but it still seems impossible to consider it a possibility to not be.
You wonder what would happen
If you let your heart take the wheel
For a while.
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