I was laying on my back in the grass, an opportunity you don't pass on in NYC. Rain was falling in sparse dustings. The drops felt cold as if spring were fighting the troughs of winter’s lashings. How many competing gusts between the sky and me brought the drops to terminus on my face?

Bryant Park is my favorite park in the city. It is... cozy, somehow.

I was waiting for my train and contemplating missing its appointment for the opportunity of an unexpected, untamed night. There are always whispers of adventure that float through the drafty streets of this city. A night in New York fueled by a chemical blend of engine exhaust, the exhaled breaths of a thousand thousand people, concrete dust, and a score of active aromas that curl and combust into sentience: the drifting life force of New York.

I was nearly asleep when this life force snapped me from my musings.

The sky a violet, churning purple. My favorite sky; a sleepy royal vibration.

I stood, brushing grass from my hair, and looked straight down West 41st like you are now. It was a rousing sight.

Eyes watery from yawning, colors blotched, and shapes converged like a rushing crowd of family and sailors eager to tell each other about their adventures. I blinked and the lines were straight again, the buildings quietly minding their own. The sun trumpeted its departure. I rushed to capture the final moments of declaration.

To feel the heart of New York you need to see its colors run.

A cab driver raced for the next red light and the city passed indifferently while I stole light and mused about grass.

New York, NY. 2014