The Waking City
It is a snowy, blustery day. Cold, crisp, clear skies over the city skyline of New York City. Snow flurries from the sky as the wind kicks up. We see gusts of freezing air blow past the Chrysler Building, down through streets of honking cabs “hey, c’mon, get outta the way” and miserable looking pedestrians, who crowd into the tunnels of the subways pack. All of a sudden, their winter coats trapping them in boxes of body odor and heat stuffed together on their morning commute. Down through the tunnels, a blast of laundry mixed with hot garbage and the sweet smell of the hot nuts stands. Going through the hellish wasteland in Times Square, following snow again, over the Brooklyn Bridge through neighborhoods where families tuck their little bundled infants through strollers and walk down little lanes of trees. Back through neighborhoods, where, again, little corner stores sell hot bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches to morning commuters, a vendor yells through the streets “A bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, the best thing you ever fucking ate. It cost what? $2.50 That’s a deal.” Following the wind and it’s early to mid-December morning in New York City. A city where so many people dream of coming and making a life for themselves. And it’s always felt a little bit like maybe, just around the corner, there’s a little bit of magic.