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Last night, or this morning, I dreamt of New York. There was no story, no series of events. It was me, walking down the streets, crossing the roads in wild abandon, feasting on the smells of pizza and falafels, gorging on hot dogs and knishes, the sun on my back in Bryant Park, the piano so so far away, the click clack of high heels on the pavements that turn to cluck cluck on the roads, the blast of cold conditioned air from the stores on Fifth Avenue, the steam of hot air on your leg from the subway exhausts, the sting on your shoulder where the Busy Important Urgent man’s leather bag hit you when he ran walk towards his Busy Important Urgent task, the pregnant silence in the subway station before the train arrives, the gibberish announcement when it does, the sighs and groans of the passengers inside when more bodies invade no man’s space that becomes theirs for three minutes, the suspension of time and space, sound and smell except for the sound of rail on track, buzz of everyday life resuming when you step out, the cold wet stones of the steps, the air of anxiety and excitement among the three day tourist seeking for the New Yorker experience in the Three Day Experience Authentic New York package, the random jazz note that breaks the unpredictable monotone of breathing, moving humans and the orchastrated chaos when the rains pour down and umbrellas dominate the arena where cell phones did.

And the yellow cab. Of course, there are the yellow cabs. They’re there, everywhere, but they can’t seem to push past my other sensory encounters and they move on, muted.

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