Where, walking South on Amsterdam Ave, the near-blinding snow-reflected light of the sun just above the spire of Holy Name Church coinciding with an unusually shrill, unusually long emergency vehicle siren passing through but in no way changing the concurrent and unremitting frigid air result in total sensory overload: a brief premonition of immanent death or what some Christians call rapture.

Where, through the blinds, the afternoon light suddenly insinuates itself into the sickroom: efflugent propaganda.

Where narrow passageways are cut out of the plowed snow at each intersection and because two people can't pass one another without touching unless one person steps back and waits like cars do on tiny, one-lane dirt roads, the city becomes a thrilling labyrinth of intimacy and confrontation.

Where a man crossing Amsterdam Avenue with his young son puts his hand up in protest like an exasperated crossing guard when an SUV comes to a rather abrupt stop at the light at 99th Street and the driver rolls down his window and shouts, "I understand if I'd run the light and you did that but really...really? I mean I stopped here so give me a break, huh?" and the man crossing the street draws the boy toward him, turns to face the driver in his car, and makes his sign of protest again.

Where, laden with fresh snow, the tree limbs are newly visible in chiaroscuro.

Where the ice and snow and slush conspire to bring down the bipeds who—buttocks clenched and eyes turned down—move slowly, slowly on, without appreciation.

Where at 8:35 am huge white snowflakes (so big they almost cast shadows as they fall) turn the city into a snowglobe.