This roiling mass of New York, like all life, craves creation, tearing down and building up, rushing through space, connecting and retreating. Surrounded by millions crowding small islands, walled by history and class, the drive dives down into ground and flies up into sky, builds tangles of relation and cuts them off without a word.
Stand on the street that’s paved over an older street of cobblestones that were nestled into naked ground. Go down under ground to feel the rumble of trains charging through tunnels stacked on one another, some so low and forgotten as to be reclaimed by the dark before memory.
Look up at towers of window lights, lives piled on lives, glass open to sky but not to intruding looks. Above it all you are free of it all, food and entertainments delivered, roots forgotten.
Merciless hands fling lives’ possessions out windows, tear open roofs, pull rain down to stain walls, tumble buildings into rubble; ceaseless motion lays tracks of motion, piles up new dwellings of commerce that throw their glaring light into a sky forgotten of stars, covering a ground forgotten of living dirt. But reminders remain, so obvious as to be secret, so dear as to be ignored.
Outside the habitual flow with its usual gaze you can spy hidden doors, secret histories showing through cracks of peeling paint, nature still at work, hungry ghosts seeking food.