Where at 6:25 pm the color of the sky through the south-facing window is the color of Bruce Springsteen's jeans on the Born in the U.S.A. album cover.

Where the city--almost gray all over--cannot hide its gold.

Where instead of muffling the chronic jangle, the incessant rain amplifies the city's dysthymic syncopation.

Where the rats on 93rd street between Broadway and Amsterdam swagger across the trash-strewn street.

Where, at the Starbucks at Grove and West 4th Streets, a man shouts, "Get your rabbit ass outta here!" at a Starbucks manager—short auburn ponytail poking through her Starbucks cap—who says, "Sir, Sir, there are children here..." motioning to two boys one of whom is holding a copy of Watership Down.

Where a child sitting in a tiny black police car watches a video in which a yellow robot named Plex sings "keep your hands to yourself, hands to yourself... keep your hands to yourself..." to a blue female arctic cat-creature named Toodee, and a large black woman named Deborah cuts the child's hair while singing along with Plex, "hands to yourself, hands to yourself."

Where the frozen, snow-covered lake and the sky are almost the same color except the sky is tea with more milk than tea and the lake is the page of the world ripped away.