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It rains.

After days of warm kind October sun and when you need benevolence, it rains, cold dark confining rain of November. You scowl. Saturday night on the Bowery is a farce, it has always been a street for the young to ruin, what else is new. I sat in a window on the upper west side and watched the traffic on the west side highway, slow meandering diamond necklace of cars along the dark stillness of the Hudson River. This city is a faceted blessing.

We sat on the sixth floor of a Chinatown walk up painting our whims into the universe. More windows, more views to infinity and sometimes I think the magic of this place is it makes you think you fly. I swam in poetry, piles of it amassed around me in the silence. All good things come, but you must go out to greet it. If you never say your name out loud to anyone, they can never ever call you by it. It may rain now.

But it will not always.