I think all of New York can be summed up in that moment when you're on the subway, travelling alone, and you're keeping your eyes on something that gives purpose, and the drunk across the aisle is calling you "beautiful" amidst the story of how he lost his house, and it has been so long that it actually means something, and then another train is suddenly beside you, moving at the same speed, going the same place or someplace different, it couldn't matter less, and you watch the people suspended in their car, in slow-moving windows that glow through the darkness, and your eyes meet those of someone across that insurmountable gap, close enough to tell their colour and to know if their day has been long or if they've been hurt of if they've just found joy, close enough to know them, and then they are gone, their train having slowed while yours sped up, and you will never see them again.
(I looked for a photo to accompany this, but every single photo I've taken in New York is of the beach or of a park. Which might say something, I guess.)
(Let's all move to a big farmhouse in Vermont.)
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