The Order Of Things: New York City, 8:53 A.M.
- •I wake up in Brooklyn and drag my feet to the subway, sidling up against a total stranger and grasping a slippery pole for support.
- •I ascend into Manhattan, crawling out of the 28th street station eager to see sunlight and breathe in the fetid, sewer-scented air.
- •Hot coffee sloshes against my skin as someone rushes by, unapologetic to my caffeine plight. "Fucker," I mutter, the exclamation carried in the muggy breeze only to be slapped against a high rise.
- •I pass the men in their food trucks, windows shut as they get ready for the day, the heat of the grills fogging up the glass.
- •I love the man that sits outside of my office building, pigeons eating from his open palm and cluttering the sidewalk at his feet.
- •The city never feels sleepy. Never yawns in the face of sunrise.
- •I love the broad-shouldered resilience of New Yorkers at approximately 8:53 a.m., earbuds blasting their own music, everyone marching to their own beat.